


Humble Pieces

by TheGrayGoose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I'm sorry if Ned Umber's dialogue is just thinly veiled Milhouse quotes), Boatbaby (Game of Thrones), Canon compliant through season 7, Canon-Typical Violence, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fix-It, Found Family, Frey redemption, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Multi, Not Season/Series 08 Compliant, Pregnancy, Pregnancy horrors, Sexual Content, WEDDINGS AHOY, child characters, depressing arranged marriages, tags to be added as we go to maintain MYSTERY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 177,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25215562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGrayGoose/pseuds/TheGrayGoose
Summary: "In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them."Ever wonder what happened after the Lone Wolf massacre at the Twins, or how the other Northern families prepare for  the army of the dead? What horrors does Cersei have in store for when the rival queen comes south? What does Dany's Essosi retinue truly think of Westeros? And what on earth has Howland Reed been doing in his swamp? A season 8 fix-it (canon compliant through the end of season 7), strongly focused on minor characters' stories while our "players" move about in the background. Show canon, but you may see some book-only friends popping up.
Relationships: Alyn Haigh/Kitty Frey, Euron Greyjoy/Cersei Lannister, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Roslin Frey/Edmure Tully
Comments: 151
Kudos: 70





	1. Alyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House Haigh becomes entangled in the politics of Westeros.

Kingslayer kicked and whinnied. “Ssshh,” Alyn soothed, drawing a hand down his mane. The courser twitched irritably, nostrils quivering, but calmed after a moment of the steady touch. Inwardly he thrilled—Kingslayer could be so difficult after a hunt, allowing none but Harys to touch him, but he’d been working at it, and finally the courser was showing a response. But since horses could sense emotion, he bottled up his glee to share with Walder later. The life of a squire was a thankless one, and successful handling of Ser’s mount brought him one step closer to a knighthood of his own. He decided Kingslayer had earned an extra apple.

As the horse chomped the treat from his hand, Alyn looked around him and found that twilight had fallen while he toiled in the stables. How could it be so late already? Harys had returned from the hunt not long after he took lunch; yet, darkness fell early in winter, he was finding. It was his first—well, the first he remembered, anyway. He didn’t like it so far. Winter had only just started, and Mother was already keeping him close, huddled inside the keep from dawn til dusk. It was just the kind of dull, sedentary life that suited her, but Alyn and his brothers became itchy and restless after a day or two of snow. A man could suffocate, being penned up in such tight quarters. It wasn’t natural. Only ladies and cravens hid when winter came. A knight—or, fine, a squire—must be ever-ready, and never mind the season. Harys looked years younger every morning he was able to leave the keep, sucking in a deep breath of the crisp air as he rode out to hunt for their dinner. Alyn was following his lead as much as he was allowed. It was a relief to be outdoors, to smell something other than the heavy sweetness of ladies’ perfume and the moist odor of boiled vegetables.

He tarried in the stalls, delaying his return to the keep, until his ears perked at the distant sound of hoofbeats. Mother hadn’t told him to expect anyone, but in this season it wasn’t unusual for a traveler to overnight at their keep, it being so much safer to shelter indoors when the snows fell. He thought nothing of it until Kingslayer, so recently calmed, bristled. His eyes were wild with suspicion. “Ssssh,” Alyn said again, patting his nose. “I’ll take care of it.” He thought Kingslayer understood. Still, he crept towards the door with caution.

It was a girl. A pretty one. He swallowed, suddenly aware of the state of his hair and the horse shit on his trousers, even though her own dress and cloak were spattered with mud. It took a moment to pull his gaze away from her arresting blue eyes, but when he did, he noticed her palfrey was a fine one—even finer than his father’s. “Can I help you?” he ventured.

“Is this the home of Ser Leslyn Haigh?” The girl’s voice was no more than a whisper, and he advanced on her so as to hear her better. She stiffened, no doubt catching sigh of his state of disarray. Mother’s daily pleas to take better care of his appearance came back to him.

“Yes, my lady, and I am Ser Leslyn’s son,” he offered, cursing his voice as it cracked. “May I have the honor of asking your name?”

The palfrey pawed the ground restlessly, throwing the mystery girl into shadow so he could not see her face any longer. The dying sun turned her flyaway hair golden at the edges. It looked just like the spun sugar he had eaten once at the Maiden’s Day festival. “My name is Catelyn Sh—um, Catelyn. Kitty.” She cleared her throat, looking as frightened and skittish as Kingslayer, though of course she had to be so much gentler than that.

It was touching, her shyness. It made him want to take care of her, wrap her in his arms and wipe away her tears. Maybe?.. but no, she was too fine a lady for that, if her palfrey was anything to judge by. And though he didn’t know much about ladies’ clothes, her cloak looked a deal more expensive than anything his mother owned. Such a pretty shade of blue, it made her eyes sparkle so…

Her eyes widened. She must have caught him staring. Damn! “Forgive me, my lady, I was just examining your…” He cast his eyes about her person for some pretext and alit on a piece of jewelry at her throat. “Your broach,” he said finally. “Are you from Riverrun?”

The lady fiddled with her reins. _She must be so nervous about being out alone, she won’t even meet my eye. I wonder where her father and brothers are… maybe she is lost?_ Perhaps Mother would invite her to stay for the night, and when her menfolk came for her tomorrow, she’d tell them how Alyn had sheltered her and made her welcome. “No more than any knight would do,” he’d say, and they’d be impressed at his humility, whoever they were. If he were really lucky her father might ask Alyn to squire for him! _And Harys can tend to his own horse,_ he thought, a smug smile rising to his face.

“No, I’m not from Riverrun,” the lady said at last. The words tumbled from her lips, as if she weren’t used to saying so many at a time. His mother got that way, sometimes, shifty eyed and quick to disappear, whenever she returned from visiting her family. He had never troubled to ask why, but he knew that she never took him or Walder with her to the Twins.

“It’s only your broach, my lady. A fish—that’s why I thought Riverrun… but I know other noble houses take fish as their sigils, too,” he said kindly. But beneath that, a swell of irritation began to build. Why wouldn’t she smile? Perhaps other men had been cruel to her, but not him! “Won’t you come with me to the keep? My father is within. He’d be pleased to meet you.”

“Oh—all right.” She looked at him for a beat, blushing, until he realized he was meant to help her from the saddle. Of course! A highborn lady shouldn’t dismount all by herself. (But if truth be told, Harys’ wife Tandei needed no help, and he’d forgotten.)

“Down you get, that’s it—oof! You’re heavier than you look.” He meant to tease her, but she only worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. Japes were out, then—some girls simply didn’t have a sense of humor, and she must be one of those. Oh well, he’d just have to try harder. By the end of the evening, he was determined to make her smile, and maybe blush again.

“I thank you, my lord, you are most gracious.” A septa’s words, if he’d ever heard them, but she was looking at him with her blue gaze again, and more shockingly, he’d been allowed to touch her ungloved hand! Perhaps this lass was more than she looked. A bit dazed, he took her hand again, marveling at the smoothness of her skin, and led her inside.

The keep smelled of smoke and poultry, but it was blessedly warm. “Your cloak, my lady?” he offered when they were within. Unspeaking, she unwound it from her shoulders and handed it to him, her wide scared eyes surveying the hall, the smoke-blackened corners and fusty old rushes on the floor. Again he revised his opinion of the mystery girl. Awed by even his family’s cozy keep, but well-bred enough to expect him to take her coat. Was she not of the Riverlands? He’d heard about the crannogmen, and their strange dwellings… Under cover of darkness, he lifted the clasp of her cloak to his face, hoping to examine it more closely.

“Alyn!” His mother strode down the hall towards him, face like a thundercloud. “We have been holding dinner for half a turn of the glass, the chicken’s gone stone cold, and all so you can rustle about in the stables! Kingslayer will still be there when you are finished eating!” The fight was not a new one. He knew it well enough to tune out and still respond in all the appropriate places, but for the first time he felt a prickle of awareness of how childish the argument was. Donnel might tease him about it, but it had never bothered him until this moment, when a pretty girl was watching.

“Mother,” he soothed, “please don’t start. I was attending to our guest! It wouldn’t be kind to leave her in the yard while we supped, would it?”

“Don’t start?” Her eyebrows rose like a kite on a stiff breeze. “Listen to yourself, you learn how to hold a sword and wipe down armor and you think you’re a man…” The presence of their noble guest went unremarked as his mother seized his ear, muttering something that contained the words “your father,” and began dragging him to the great hall. His face burned with embarrassment.

“Mother, stop,” he pleaded, wrenching away from her pincers. “We have a guest! Really!”

“Don’t tell me you’ve invited the stable boy to dinner again.” At last, though, she bothered to focus on something other than herself and looked about, jumping as she noticed the silent girl backed into a corner. “I apologize, my lady, for making you watch as I chastise my son. When you have a boy or two yourself, you’ll understand.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, but still his heart filled with sympathy. So delicate! Nothing at all like his mother, or Tandei.

“Perriane,” she gulped, tears threatening to spill down her pink cheeks. Had he told her Mother’s name? “I’m don’t mean to interrupt you, but I didn’t know where else to go, and I knew you lived over this way. Can you—can you take me in for a night?” Rivulets streamed down her face, and her arms rose up to hug Mother, as if she had no control over them. “Just one night, I promise, then I’ll go… but I’ve traveled all day, I’m so tired…”

Alyn grasped little of this, but Mother seemed to understand better. All irritation forgotten, she crossed the room and swept the girl tight into her arms and began patting her hair. “Ssssh,” she soothed. Alyn fought a sudden urge to laugh, turning it into a cough. He’d done the same thing to Kingslayer not a moment ago. Perhaps women and horses were not so different. “Ssssh,” she said again, “Come with me, we’ll get you warm and refreshed quicker than you can say ‘King Jaehaerys.’ Have you brought anything with you?” The girl shook her head no, face still buried in Mother’s shoulder. “Something of Tandei’s will serve, then. Alyn.” She turned her attention to him again, eyes wide with alarm. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the open door at his back. “Run and tell your father that Lady Frey is here.”

Lady Frey! Of course, only his liege lord’s wife would dare to use a mount as fine as that for the gentle half-days’ ride from the Twins. Grand ladies could spot a fine horse at a glance, though they had no talent for handling beasts beyond that. Yet it was more than passing strange for a woman to ride unaccompanied in such times, much less a woman of such high distinction as Walder Frey’s wife. Some of Lord Walder’s more headstrong daughters were rumored to go riding alone, in secret, but the girl—no, _woman_ , for she was wed—he’d met outside the stables had been shy and retiring, nothing like bold Cousin Amarei. They’d met just the once, and he had no desire to repeat the experience, though his brother Donnel had doted on her.

Head swirling with thoughts, he passed into the great hall, where his father and brothers were attacking their dinner. To judge from their tidy plates, they’d set to the meal as soon as Mother had left. The dull silver serving dishes were already scraped clean of any leftovers, and only a lonely pile of steamed beets and a few inches of thin pea soup remained. Poor fare to share with their liege Lady, or with him.

“Alyn, finally you deign to join us,” his father pontificated from his seat at the head of the table. Gods be praised, he sounded more tired than angry. “I ought to box your ears, but after thinking on it, I have devised a more devious punishment. You shall sup on beets and have no more tonight. You mislike them so.” Alyn’s ears burned. For some infernal reason, his parents were convinced he hated beets. Perhaps he had, when he’d been five or six, but had eaten them without comment for many years now! Of course he preferred other things, but needs must when winter came. And they weren’t too bad, really, not with a bit of fresh goat’s cheese. Sometimes he thought they still saw him as a boy no older than Walder.

“I’ll be pleased, Father,” he said through gritted teeth. “But it must wait. Mother bid me tell you that Lady Frey has arrived and will be staying the night. She’s with her now, in Tandei’s chambers.”

He waited, expecting a hue and cry at this news, but Father only returned his attention to the capon. “I’ll have the cook fix Bellena a plate later. Thank the gods she doesn’t eat much. I wish your mother had mentioned she was visiting, but women don’t think of such things. Thoughts flit in and out of their head like moths.” A few seats down from him, Tandei set her jaw.

“Not _Bellena_ , Father, Lord Walder’s wife! Kitty! Lady of the Twins!” This had more of the effect he expected; Donnel’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, Harys dropped his spoon in his lap, and Tandei upset the salt cellar. Walder continued eating as if he hadn’t heard. Father’s brow furrowed, though he kept control of his hands. _Ha!_ Maybe next time he was late to dinner, they’d think to save him something! There was a rumble in his stomach, but he tried to keep his face impassive.

With studied movements, Father removed the napkin from his collar and placed it, folded, on his plate. “Well, Alyn, go out and stable their horses, and show her retinue into the hall! We haven’t enough stores for a grand feast, I fear, but maybe the men at least will settle for ale and stew… how many has she brought?”

“It’s just her, Father. She came alone.” As he said this, his mind raced. This _was_ a queer business, it wasn’t just in his mind after all. It wasn’t like Father to get ruffled over minor things.

“Surely she must have brought an escort, at least.” When he didn’t respond, Father’s face grew still. “Not even that?”

“No, unless they are far behind her. She arrived just now, by herself, and asked to see you, and Mother took her upstairs to bathe and change. I—” And he swallowed. “I didn’t think to ask why she wanted to see you, Father.” Gods, and now he was growing red again. Why hadn’t he asked what she was after? But it really hadn’t occurred to him!

“This bodes ill,” Harys muttered, and Father nodded.

“It does. It’s the worst news that comes unlooked-for, but now she’s here, we must treat her gently. Tandei, go up to your chambers and see if you can be of assistance, and for the gods’ sake try and figure out why she’s here, and if we can expect anyone else this evening. Donnel, send a man out to guard the door and watch for any other guests. Walder—just stay out of the way.” Walder did not lift his eyes from his meat, but nodded. “Alyn…”

“She looks hungry, Father, and frightened. May I bring her a plate and some wine to calm her nerves?” And maybe sneak a bit for himself on the way.

“Yes… yes of course, she’ll need something to sustain her if she’s ridden from the Twins today,” he said absently, wiping his mouth. “Beets won’t serve for Lady Frey. See if there’s any capon the cook held back for breakfast.”

The cook was only too happy to help, jumping up from her own meal of oatcakes and hard cheese to rustle up something appropriate as soon as he’d said “Frey.” “If this Lady Kitty has anything of old Walder’s tastes, she’ll want the choicest morsels and make no mistake,” the cook cursed as she bustled about with the frying pan. “There is some of the capon I’d set aside for a hash, your father will miss it at his breakfast but I’m sure he’ll understand. These buttered beans are still hot, or near enough she won’t fuss, and some honeyed squash… oh, and I’ll make a quick salad of raisins and sweetgrass. Hand me that canister, will you?” Alyn complied, not without reservations—he was her master’s son, and here she was ordering him about like a kitchen girl!—but tonight was too strange and exciting to hold his anger for long. Tomorrow he’d mention it to Father, and she’d lose wages for a fortnight as a penance.

In a trifling the cook was shoving a plate into his hands, one of the gold-rimmed ones they used for entertaining. “This should serve. You just run back down and tell me if she has any special requests, all right? I won’t retire right away in case she wants something richer. I’ll send the boy up with wine as soon as I can find him.” She handed him a second, everyday plate, covered with a cloth napkin. “And this is for you, I know you’ve not had your dinner yet. Doubtless they’ll forget about you in the hubbub, so just step somewhere out of the way and eat this, and I won’t say naught about the beets.” He sniffed the warm steam rising from the napkin—it proved to be a duplicate of what was on Kitty’s plate. He felt a sudden rush of affection for her.

“Ah, that’s a sight for sore eyes—or a smell for sore nostrils, anyway. You have my thanks.” And he meant it, truly, there would be no talk of keeping back her wages now. That would’ve been unkind. It wouldn’t be… _knightly_.

He was halfway up the stairs before he thought—dessert! She’d want something sweet for after. Maybe there was some of that foul apple cake left. Not a personal favorite, but the rest of his family loved it well. The plates were nearly upset as he clattered back down the stairs.

“Cake!” he cried, bursting back into the kitchen. “Have we any cake?”

The cook, who was readying herself to go out of doors, halted. “Don’t you have enough to be getting on with?” Her fingers still tugged at the clasp of her cloak, a plain wooden button, nothing like the sparkling silver fish Kitty had worn.

“Girls like sweet things,” he said simply. “I think she’ll want a dainty to nibble on after her meal, don’t you? We wouldn’t want to displease Lady Frey.” It was true enough, and he was certain she was holding back something—there was nearly always cake in their household, if for no other reason than the cook herself liked it.

“No, we wouldn’t.” She moved towards the cabinet, as he knew she would, and the door swung open to reveal a wedge of _something_ wrapped in cloth. “There’s apple cake,” she announced, feigning surprise. Alyn heard disappointment in her voice instead. “I’d forgotten. Wait now while I wrap it up.”

“I knew it,’ he crowed, not troubling to keep the smile off his face. “You always keep some back for yourself!”

 _That was harsh,_ he though, as her lined face fell. She’d been kind enough to remember a plate for him, after all. “You needn’t give me all of it. I only need a piece for Kitty—ah, Lady Frey, that is. I don’t like it.”

There was something strangely _knowing_ about her glance then. She looked rather like Father when he scolded himself and Walder for sneaking off to fish instead of paying their weekly visit to the Sept. “Tell me,” she said, cutting a thick wedge off the cake, “Is the lady comely? And about your age, I would think, if I know Walder Frey.” It took a moment, but then he remembered that she _did_ know Lord Frey—she’d served at the Twins, and come with Mother when she was married.

His felt his face grow hot. Yes, Lady Kitty was sweet as a song and soft as a summer’s breeze, but that didn’t mean anything! It would only be stating the obvious to say so. “She is as fair as any other highborn woman of my acquaintance,” he said gravely, hoping to put an end to the conversation and hurry away.

Instead, the cook hooted. “You don’t know any other highborn women!”

“Mother and Tandei are highborn,” he argued, before he could stop himself. What a stupid argument to be having when their liege lady waited on her meal!

“Oh, so she’s only as lovely as your own dear Mother! Fancy that.” She handed him a bundle of creamy white cloth, wrapped expertly as only her hands could manage. “Nothing special about her at all, if you’re to be believed. I’m sure your concerns are only for her appetite.” She cackled again, and Alyn took that as a cue to leave. She was still muttering behind him as he returned to the hall.

Upstairs, he paused outside Tandei’s door, listening. Hurried whispers came from within, and he thought he caught Father’s voice, which meant it was safe to enter. Lady Kitty must be up and about, then, not refreshing herself any longer… she would’ve combed out her long, thick hair already, and washed her glowing face, and dressed in slips of lace and silk… he swallowed. His ears burned.

All four of them were bunched close around the fire; their guest in the furthest corner, with Tandei at her side and his parents opposite. It put him in mind of a pack of hens clustered around their feed. Kitty was the only one to catch his eye as he came into the room. There was a pleading in her eyes that seemed to say, “help me!”, and her whole body strained to come to him. If his ears weren’t red before, they were now.

“I have dinner,” he announced, when no one greeted him. Tandei and Mother shot him twin glares. “Some capon, and vegetables, and a cake for after.” Silence. “And… there will be wine?” he said hopefully.

“Thank you.” Kitty’s voice, however small, roused the gathering. “I’d love something to eat.” He crossed the room to hand it to her, realizing too late that she hadn’t been given a table. All the nearby chairs were taken, and she deserved better than to eat off her lap—damn! He seized a footstool and set it before her with a flourish. “Oh—you’re so kind, thank you.” A pink tinge touched her cheek as his reward.

She set about her dinner with dainty, practiced bites, but soon gave in to the demands of her stomach. Before long she was tearing strips off her chicken leg with relish. Alyn had to stifle a laugh—table manners such as that would earn him a clout in the ear, but Father was regarding Kitty with a studied and benevolent kindness. Well, perhaps they could allow a great lady such indulgences. Even in her hunger, she showed judicious use of her napkin, wiping her delicate lips after each swallow.

For Father’s part, he continued as if Alyn hadn’t interrupted them. “Are you _certain_ none of them are left, Lady Frey?” he asked, leaning close to her, elbows on his knees. “Forgive me for doubting, but I find this— _difficult_ to believe.” A short laugh. “I mean, how is it possible? Had you drunk any wine, or hippocras, before…”

“No,” Kitty murmured between nibbles on her piece of squash. “Lord Walder never gives me wine. He says it will make me fat.” As if it could be so! She was slender as a spear. He was glad he’d thought to ask for wine.

“Have you been sleeping well? Has anyone at the Twins been stricken with fever? Were your ladies telling you ghost stories before dinner?” Father was leaning so far forward now that he threatened to pitch headfirst into the fire. Sweat trickled down his brow. Alyn shifted and looked at his mother instead. It was an uncomfortable thing to see Father so ill at ease. Unfortunately, he found no respite there, for Mother’s eyes were darting back and forth between Father and Kitty with the kind of interest she usually reserved for fabric samples.

“No, my lord. I can’t explain what I saw, but I have told everything true. Lord Walder is dead.” Tears fell from her eyes in two perfect, glistening streams. “With all his sons and grandsons… all that were present at the Twins, anyway. I have nowhere to go.” She hiccuped. “And what if that woman comes after me, the one who killed him?? I just took my horse and fled, I didn’t tell anyone where I was going or ask for leave, I was too frightened. You didn’t see her… she looked like me, just a girl, but her eyes were older than the hills... She looked at me and saw everything in my mind, I swear to you, she has the power of the Stranger in her. I couldn’t stay, not for all the gold in Casterly Rock—” And she dissolved into sobs. Tandei clucked her tongue in sympathy, but Mother was looking at Father, engaged in a complicated and silent conversation. They seemed to be disagreeing, though Alyn could not say why.

“That is quite the story,” Mother said when the silence grew too uncomfortable to bear. “My lady, I’m afraid it I don’t know what to make of it… and the news of my father’s passing wearies me more than I can say. It does not come as a complete surprise, as he was so old, but the thought is only a dim shadow of the deed. I can bear no more counsel until morning.” As if in a trance, Mother rose and drifted out of the room.

 _I should go to her,_ he thought, _and let her cry on my shoulder, and listen to her talk about her father._ But there would still be time for grief after an hour or two, and he knew he wouldn’t get a word of this out of Father if left right now. Besides, she had Harys and Donnel, and Lady Kitty had no one! Quietly, he retreated into the shadow of the open door with his leg of chicken.

“I—I’m sorry to upset Lady Perriane so.” The much-discussed cake fell into Kitty’s lap, forgotten, and Alyn cursed silently. “She was so friendly to me at the wedding. That’s why I thought of her, after everything…”

“What of your own family, my lady?” asked Tandei, patting her on the back. “Can we help you home tomorrow morn?”

“They won’t take me back.” Kitty’s tears fell fast and thick again. “I have three younger sisters, my lady, and as many unmarried cousins. Father was thrilled to get rid of me.”

For once, Father’s face showed a genuine concern he never extended to his own children. “That can’t be true, dear. You’ve done no wrong by outliving your husband—”

“It _is_ ,” she insisted. “Mother told me not to expect any favors from them, now I’m a Frey. They haven’t even written to me since my marriage.” From her sudden vehemence, Alyn could tell it was true. He knew too well that adults only liked you until you could talk back, and then they started worrying about marrying you off and getting you knighted and out of the house. He had no doubt her parents would view her as a burden.

Tandei seemed to believe her, too. One hand rubbed Kitty’s back as she wept. “Is there nothing we can do?” she implored Father in an undertone, which was nonetheless still perfectly audible to both himself and Kitty. “She’s just seen her husband and countless others slaughtered, we can’t send her back to people who will blame her for it. You _know_ how the Shawneys are, bitter, angry people with more children than is wise—”

“Tandei!” Father hissed. “That will be quite enough!”

“I’m only speaking the truth!” She looked to Kitty as if for encouragement, but she was too lost in her own grief. It was just as well. Tandei wasn’t _wrong_ , exactly; the Shawneys were trash, upjumped innkeeps who never grew out of their smallfolk mentality, everyone knew it. But Tandei cared more for being right than being helpful or kind. Kitty wouldn’t love them better for insulting her.

“You speak only to flatter yourself. Out!” Father commanded.

Tandei stood, face red and fists clenched. “These are my rooms!”

“Your rooms that Perriane and I gave you.” A furious battle of wills ensued, during which he took an opportunity to glance at Kitty. Her tears had slowed, and she appeared unaffected by the slight to her family’s honor, so wrapped up was she in fear and exhaustion. How Father could see her looking like that and not believe her…

“Fine!” Tandei interrupted his thoughts with a stamp of her foot, something even her son Walder had outgrown. “Fine! I’ll spend the night in Harys’ chambers, and don’t think he won’t hear about this.” Scarlet with embarrassment, she stormed out of the room in a whirl of skirts.

Father could not resist a parting shot; Tandei always riled him so. “I don’t care what you tell him, so long as you keep to his chambers. Your wedding day will be seven years gone in two moons, and you’ve only produced one child—”

“Ha!” she shrieked. “A knight aims his sword where his own armor is weakest, as they say, and how true it is! Do you think I haven’t noticed Alyn is half the age of his brother?”

“You dare speak to me this way in my own house!” Father rose and strode to the landing, where Tandei lay in wait. Even in the weak light from the hall, Alyn could see how taut his upper lip was, a sure sign of a thrashing to come, although with Tandei he could only deliver the blows verbally. “I should send _you_ back where you came from!”

“Do it,” she taunted, “I’ve had enough! You’d have a job finding anyone else to put up with this shithole!”

That did it, Father couldn’t bear crude language, especially from ladies. “Harys!” he roared, descending the stairs.

“Harys!” Tandei echoed. “Harys, come and see what a brute your father is being!” There was a scuffle as they both tried to get down the stairs at the same time. A great crash sounded as something was knocked over in the hall, and anything that could shatter would be expensive. _Mother won’t be pleased._ He winced.

In an effort to avoid looking at Kitty, he slowly ate his squash, chewing each bite until it was flavorless mush. Could his family have behaved any worse before their Lady, tonight? Mother, in her grief, could be forgiven for not acting the gracious host; but Father and Tandei, arguing like that in front of guests! They scrapped like a pair of cats, they did, and though he was used enough to it that it barely registered, Alyn had seen enough of the world to know it was unusual, and should therefore be kept from company. _And,_ he realized with a shock, _now you’re being a poor host as well, making her watch you eat!_ He swallowed his squash-mush in a hurry and choked on it.

“…Alyn?” Kitty ventured, when he succumbed to a fit of coughing. “Are you well?” Ridiculously, he felt himself color, beyond what was caused by the lack of air. Even with all her troubles, she cared to ask after _his_ health and well-being!

“F—fine,” he coughed, and held up a hand to spell her. When he’d regained enough composure to speak, he said, “Forgive me, my lady, for my family’s behavior tonight. We get so few guests that I think we forget how to act. They mean well. It is just that your story frightens them, and it has to come out somehow.” He hoped she could understand that. Actually, he was quite proud of how succinctly he’d summed up the family Haigh for her.

“Does Lady Tandei always speak to your father like that?” She looked him in the eye for the first time since he’d entered the room. It was not the question he expected, but perhaps it was not so odd coming from someone like her, who was so sweet and shy and would never dream of challenging a man before company.

“Yes,” he confessed, but could not help grinning. “It’s a need, you see. Mother and Harys are both so laid-back, Father or Tandei could shout themselves hoarse at them, and then they’d just go on and do whatever they’d decided anyway. So they argue with each other instead. They’ll be friends again in the morning, you’ll see.”

Kitty offered him a small smile in return. “That’s funny.” A warmth spread through his chest, even though she did not continue. _I knew I could make her smile again._

Encouraged, he ventured on. “I’m sorry for what Tandei said about your family—she only meant to agree with you, I think, but she can be blunt, as you’ve seen. Do you really think they won’t have you back?”

She nodded, looking miserable. “I’m sure. Father practically danced when he sent me away. There was another man who wanted to marry me, the son of a baker, a man of good character and only a few years older than me… but he wanted to come live with us, instead of the other way round, so Father wouldn’t allow it.” Another sniffle and more tears threatened, and she allowed him to offer his sleeve. “Thank you,” she hiccuped, “you’re too kind, really.”  
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said softly. “No more than a knight would do.”

“But I’m glad you’re not a knight.” With a final wipe of her nose, she focused her red and watery eyes on him, and he felt a frisson of excitement again. “You’re so easy to talk to. Tandei, too, although I understand now why Perianne never takes her visiting.” She attempted a laugh, which was encouraging, even though it came out as more of a yelp. “Your family are real people, aren’t they? Not like at the Twins.”

What an odd thing to say. All people were real people! But he tried to understand. The Shawneys were an unpleasant lot, and he’d heard worse things about his grandfather, who he’d seen only rarely. It was a struggle to imagine fresh, lovely Kitty sharing his table and bed. Perhaps the Twins _did_ seem like a bad dream to her.

He was eager to please her again, and his eyes fell to the discarded cake in her lap. After all the trouble he’d gone to to get it, she seemed to have forgotten it. “Why don’t you try the cake, my lady?” he suggested. “Sugar always cheers me up, when nothing else does.”

“Oh, this?” With one trembling hand she lifted the cake to her face to examine it, as if she’d never seen such a thing.

“It’s my favorite,” he lied.

“Oh, well you should have it, then.” Alyn found himself holding the cloth-covered sweet again, the moist crumb now dented by her fingers. “I don’t really like sweets, anyway.”

A girl, not like sweets?? She _must_ be lying. Maybe grandfather had scolded her to keep thin once too often. Hastily, he tucked it out of the way. “I already had some. Anyway, breakfast will be here before you know it. You should sleep well, with how far you’ve ridden today.”

The renewed wariness in her eyes betrayed how little she thought of the prospect of sleep. “I don’t think I’ll want to sleep ever again. Not while that girl is after me.”

“Then I’ll stay up with you,” he improvised. “We can play at tiles, or I can read to you…” _Please don’t ask for The Seven-Pointed Star,_ he prayed, that would send _him_ to sleep. “And if you do get tired, I’ll stand guard outside your room!”

Kitty showed a spark of faint interest at the mention of tiles, but drooped as he went on. “Truly, I don’t think I can sleep comfortably so close to the Twins. There are only a few places I could’ve gone in a day’s ride, and if that girl is after the rest of us…” She paled. “No. I need to get out of the Riverlands at least, before I can rest easy.”

“Do you have any family in one of the other kingdoms?” Some did, although probably not a family as low as the Shawneys.

“There’s a cousin near Deep Den, but I’ve never met him.” They sat in silence, thinking hard, disturbed only by a log popping in the hearth. Downstairs, there came the low rumble of Harys’ voice, soothing his wife and father’s ruffled feathers and setting the balance of the family aright, as he always did. In the work of a few moments he’d come up here and placate Kitty instead. Alyn sensed their time together was growing short.

“Do you think the baker’s son would have you back?” he asked, against his better judgment. No baker’s son was worthy of her, but long thought had brought no better ideas.

“Maybe. But he wouldn’t want to leave, not when his father’s business is so successful. Maybe for somewhere like King’s Landing—” Eyes widening, she cut off abruptly. It was obvious she’d had an idea, although what it could be, he couldn’t say. If her family couldn’t support a daughter as pretty and talented as her in the Riverlands, they certainly couldn’t afford to send her to the capitol.

“Lady Frey.” Harys stood silhouetted in the doorway, tall and imposing as Father, and looking near as old, too. His face was weary with the frustrating work of patching up Tandei’s feelings. He sank into Father’s chair with a heavy sigh. “It’s an honor to host you, though I wish it were under different circumstances. I hope Alyn hasn’t imposed upon you too much while you waited.”

Imposed?? He was the only one acting the proper host! Fuming, he shot a glare at Harys, who ignored it.

“Alyn has been very gracious, thank you.” Harys’ eyebrows rose in polite surprise, but he allowed her to continue. “He’s been helping me think of what to do next—because I know I can’t stay here, it would be too much trouble for you.”

Alyn hoped he was imagining the look of relief on his brother’s face. “I’m glad, my lady, because that is what I came to discuss. My wife mentioned that you prefer not to return to your family home. If that’s so, I thought you might stay with our Uncle Justin in a compassionate capacity. He’s been shut up alone in his keep since his wife died, and could use a young lady to manage the household and liven up the place until he passes and his daughter and goodson move in. A bit batty, to be sure, but that’s just his Whent side.” If that was a joke, Harys’ face did not hint at it.

“That sounds—nice.” Her hesitance said it sounded anything but. “But I’ve just had a thought, my lord.” Both he and Harys leaned forward, interested, and their eagerness made her expression doubtful. “A few moons ago, my husband had a raven from the Queen. She wanted to know if he had any granddaughters of good reputation willing to come to Court and act as ladies-in-waiting. I guess most of hers were killed in the accident at the Sept of Baelor…” She trailed off. _She is too well bred to suggest herself as a candidate_ , he thought, but both he and Harys could see where she was going.

“So you would go in their place? Hmm.” Harys made rather a meal of rubbing his bristly beard, only a bit less patchy than Alyn’s own. “That would not be a bad idea, if we had any safe way to get you there. Lannisport sees ships bound for King’s Landing often, but if we could get you to Lannisport, most of the danger would be behind you. Perhaps Maidenpool…”

“Can’t we just ride?” pleaded Kitty, with rising desperation. “I don’t mind that, I can ride all day, I did to get here.”

“I’m sure you can,” Harys said kindly, not pointing out that it had taken her twice the time it would him, or Alyn. “But it wouldn’t be proper for a widowed lady like yourself to ride unescorted with a man who is not kin.”

“I don’t care.” Her tears had dried, but her blue eyes were more nervous than ever. “We can pretend to be smallfolk, if you want. Or Perianne can come! That wouldn’t be improper, to travel with my stepdaughter and her family.” Alyn blinked. In some ways he’d been aware that Kitty was kin to him by marriage, but he hadn’t yet put together that she was his step-grandmother.

“Mother won’t want to travel in winter…. But you’re right, you are our grandfather’s wife, you must be allowed to travel with our household. Perhaps Tandei would come instead. She would mislike being shut up with Father.” His brow furrowed, and Alyn knew he was worrying about how best to present the idea to their parents. Neither one could be called open-minded.

“I would be so grateful,” Kitty gulped, “You needn’t come all the way with me, even. Once we’re within a day’s ride of the capitol I can go by myself.”

“We’d never let you do that, much and more could happen to an unescorted girl in King’s Landing even in broad daylight.” Harys’ tone was reassuring, but he grimaced as he said it. _Much and more could happen to a party of three, too,_ he seemed to be realizing.

Suddenly Kitty clutched at his hand, all decorum forgotten in her relief. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” she warbled. “If the Queen ever grants me gifts or favors when I’m in her service, I will pay you back threefold, I swear to you.”

The raw emotion in her voice was so searing, Alyn started to tear up himself. It was touching, the way she grieved for grandfather, even though he was not the man she would’ve chosen. _Her devotion was wasted on him,_ he thought with a sigh. _She’s every inch a gentle lady, no matter who her family is. She’s like a flower that grew out of a pot of dirt._

Harys was not paying Kitty’s predicament the attention it deserved, and Alyn felt moved to cross the room and take her hand. On second thought, he decided to drop to one knee as well. Donnel had done that, when he asked Cousin Amarei to marry him. Alyn thought he had looked stupid with his belly sagging over his belt like that, but the other ladies had swooned to see it, and later gossiped about how romantic he was. Amarei might’ve even said yes, if he had asked a few horns of ale earlier in the evening.

“My lady,” he started, struggling to remember the rest of Donnel’s drunken proposal. “Keeping you safe requires no payment or thanks. We are honored to have you in our home, and to escort you anywhere you wish to go. I only hope that you remember House Haigh fondly, and smile when you think of us, for we will all remember the night you spent under our roof with pride.” _That was pretty impressive,_ he crowed in his own head, _for being improvised!_ Donnel had thrown a few hiccups in there, too, but somehow he didn’t think those were a necessary part of the speech.

It had the hoped-for effect; Kitty blushed a pretty pink, and slid her eyes away from his. Harys, however, refused to take the hint to make himself scarce. “Ha! He’s not wrong, though I wouldn’t have phrased it like a lady’s poem.” _Just because your horse is more intelligent than you,_ he thought, rolling his eyes, but Harys ignored him. “You truly don’t need to worry about paying us back, my lady, you are family now.”

“Thank you,” said Kitty, and exchanged Alyn’s hand for his brother’s. “I’d be glad to call you family. You’ve all been so kind, really, even your cook to make this nice plate for me.”

 _She’ll be pleased as punch to hear it,_ he thought, and grinned.

To ease Lady Frey’s mind, he, his father, and Harys agreed to stand watch outside the chamber until she woke. Father was all too pleased for Alyn to draw the first shift, he noticed, but he wouldn’t let it irritate him. For, from the sounds coming through her closed door, Kitty was still awake.

He knew very well that it would not be proper to go into her room at night. It was a shame, because he truly meant no scandal. Only she might want someone to talk to if she couldn’t sleep. It wouldn’t be so bad for her to sit at the doorway and chat with him as he stood guard, would it? Maybe they could even play a game of tiles, him in the hall, her in her chambers, the pieces upon the threshold.

But then “threshold” made him think of wedding nights, and he thought maybe it was a good idea they were separated after all.

After a moment of paralyzing indecision, he rapped his knuckle against her door before he could think better of it. “Lady Kitty,” he hissed, “Are you awake?”

There were rustling noises from within the chamber, and then quiet footfalls, but she did not answer him. He made a second attempt. “Lady Kitty?”

“Yes,” came a voice faintly from within. “Yes, who is it?”

“It’s Alyn,” he hissed back. “Were you sleeping?”

“Oh, thank the gods,” came her relieved voice, and the door opened. She was wearing a creased but clean linen shift, under a pale green dressing gown embroidered with lilies that he recognized as one of Tandei’s favorites. Her brown hair, worn in a simple plait, hung over one shoulder. _It’s still damp from her bath._ He swallowed. He shouldn’t be thinking of her in the bath.

“I—” Alyn’s voice cracked again, and he silently cursed himself. “I was wondering if you still wanted to play at tiles, if you couldn’t sleep.”

“Um…” The offer had made her uncomfortable, that was clear, and with an awful sinking feeling he wished he’d not knocked on her door at all. “Um, I would like to, but I don’t think that’s appropriate. Everyone else is asleep and I’m in my night clothes. We could play tomorrow morning, if you wish…”

“Never mind,” he cut in. “Of course you’re right. Forget I said anything.” There was sense in her refusal, he knew, but that didn’t dull the pang of rejection in his stomach. Nobody would _know_ if they played a game together to pass the time.

Yet Kitty still dithered in the doorway, prolonging his discomfort. “Um… maybe we could just talk, instead? We could still hear each other, through the door… and it wouldn’t be improper…” Her hand tugged fretfully at her braid, and he melted.

“That’s a fine idea,” he said, relieved. “I don’t mean any offense, my lady, really I don’t. Most girls I meet are lowborn. I forget my courtesies.” He didn’t talk to many girls at all, lowborn or no, but she didn’t need to know that.

“I know,” said Lady Kitty, with a small, nervous smile. “Men who mean me ill are usually more aggressive. No need to apologize.” While Alyn decided whether or not she meant to impugn his manhood, Kitty gathered her bed linens and pillows and arrayed them neatly next to the doorframe. Catching his questioning gaze, she offered, “I think I’ll lay down while we talk, maybe it will make me sleepy.”

“I hope you do not find me so dull,” he joked, “but of course. And please don’t be worried if you hear me talking in the night—Harys is coming to relieve me in a few hours.”

“Yes, I remember. Ah… would you like a blanket, for your watch? You must be cold.” For reasons he couldn’t guess, she blushed.

“I wouldn’t be much of a guard if I lay down for a nap, would I? But if you can spare one, I’ll take a cushion to sit on.”

When they were both comfortable, Kitty pushed the door mostly closed, with only a finger’s breadth between the door and the frame so they could whisper back and forth. She did not want to speak again of the massacre that had driven her from the Twins; rather, she shared the tale of her midnight flight to his father’s keep, embellished here and there with details Alyn felt sure were figments of imagination. But he did not challenge her. If she wanted to think she had evaded the Faceless Men of Braavos, what harm was there in that?

All he could offer in return were dull accounts of daily life at their keep, and his hopes that his brother or father would knight him one day and let him seek his fortune in the world. Soothed by Kitty’s soft voice and the embrace of the darkness, he even shared his most secret ambition, to join the Kingsguard—or Queen’s, as circumstance would have it. He knew he was no Arthur Dayne, or Jaime Lannister; but perhaps one day he could equal Arys Oakheart or Harlan Grandison.

“…and Ser Duncan the Tall was a hedge knight, one step below where I started from! It’s not impossible,” he ended, grown defensive at the sudden realization of how foolish he sounded. “There have been a few from the Riverlands before, so…”

“If I were Queen, I’d make you a Kingsguard,” came Kitty’s soft reply. From her voice, he could tell she was smiling. “You and your brother Harys, and your father. Your actions today have shown me you are true knights.”

Alone in the corridor, Alyn did not even try to hide the smile her words brought. “You are so kind.”

She yawned, and his hopes of more compliments faded. “I do grow weary, in spite of my fears. Do you know the tales of Ser Duncan and Aegon V? Would you tell me their stories, to make me sleep?”

“Of course, my lady.” He struggled to remember the beginning of the tale his mother had told him every night as a child, but that he’d not heard in many years. “’The spring rains had softened the ground, so Dunk had no trouble digging the grave…’”

Alyn was muddling through ‘The Sworn Sword” when Harys came to relieve him. His brother frowned down at the poor picture he made, slumped against the wall outside Lady Frey’s door with a cushion to sit upon.

“I feared to find you asleep, but I did not think to find Lady Frey’s door ajar and you spinning children’s tales.” He considered Alyn, who was struggling to right himself. “Have we something else to regret?”

“No!” he protested, with as much dignity as he could muster. “She only asked me to tell her a story to help her sleep. I haven’t done anything to shame her, or myself!”

“I know, you haven’t the temperament for corrupting a lady.” Still, something in Harys’ shrewd muddy-colored eyes gave him pause. “But I worry this will lead to an… unwise fondness for Lady Frey.”

“Why shouldn’t I be fond of her? She is unwed, as of last night!” At last Alyn rose to his feet. For the first time he noticed he had grown tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with his brother.

“She is to be the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, a respected position that will offer her the safety she craves. Perhaps, in the years to come, the Queen will seek a good match for her. An association with a low squire—now, don’t start, Alyn, I am of no higher birth than you,” he soothed, at the defiant look on Alyn’s face. “It’s not an insult, it’s a fact. A lady-in-waiting of the Queen can expect a match with one of the oldest families of the realm. Not a Lord Paramount, not for a Shawney girl who has been wed once before—but perhaps a Lannister of Lannisport, or even an Estermont, cousins to the late King Robert. You would do her a disservice to court her.”

“But… but she trusts me,” Alyn whined, aware that this would mean little and less to Harys.

“Aye, and if you prove her trust right, you may yet have a chance at the Kingsguard.” Harys’ brown eyes bore into him so fiercely he had to turn away. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You know you cannot have both your dream, and a wife. Think on it tonight, when you return to your own chambers. I will ensure that Lady Frey rests easy.”

Harys’ smirking face still swam before him as he tossed and turned in his bed. _Ser Duncan loved Princess Daella,_ he fumed as he pummeled his pillow, _and still he rose to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard._ And the Sword of the Morning’s devotion to Princess Elia was well known, and there were even rumors of the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth. Why shouldn’t Westeros also know the story of Ser Alyn Haigh and his lifelong fidelity to Lady Frey? On the day he took his Kingsguard vows, she would marry a Blackwood or a Royce or a Vaith; and the ensuing years would bring them together, again and again, her growing older and sadder but no less beautiful for it, and him collecting honors and titles to fill the gap in his heart where Lady Kitty should be.

While trying to construct their last reunion, where she would pledge her eternal love to him over the grave of her late husband, he drifted to sleep, and knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic in about 20 years. Please be gentle!


	2. Roslin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roslin receives a visitor. Edmure reaches out to his family.

He came at midday, a lean, gray man on a tired horse. He came alone; no army at his back, no squire at his side, simply a man on a horse, not so different from the other men who lived outside her castle walls. At first she thought it was another of her husband’s smallfolk tempted by the recent snows to come beg a service position at Riverrun. There had been so many of late, she reflected as she watched him follow the river from balcony of the chamber she shared with Edmure. But then the clouds parted, and the sun glinted momentarily on his person, and she saw that it was Jaime Lannister. Anyone, even a sheltered woman like her, would recognize his golden hand. Roslin felt her blood freeze in her veins.

Ser Jaime reined in his horse as he approached the gate and dismounted, apparently wishing to enter quietly and without ceremony, rather than as a conquering force. Small chance of that; in his arrogance, he had taken no trouble to disguise himself. Seeing him thrust a knife of fear into her heart. The Riverlands were, on paper at least, at peace with the Iron Throne. There was no call for a royal visit. There was nothing left in the Riverlands even to plunder. A planned visit would’ve made her nervy in itself, but it was nothing compared to the unheralded arrival of the Queen’s brother and (it was rumored) lover. And the things Edmure had said he threatened at the parley… She closed her eyes and shook her head. No. It would not do to dwell on that.

The clouds moved over the sun, and she turned away. It was not her purview to worry about the kingslayer. _There is no cause for them to quarrel with the Tullys any longer,_ she told herself. _You will worry yourself sick._ Ed would manage the kingslayer, no matter how furious he may be, and give her the gist later in bed. Besides, it was nearly time for little Hoster to go down for his nap. Sometimes she would sing him a sweet song until he drifted off; other times, she would merely comb through his growing auburn hair with her fingers until he slept. Other noblewomen may entrust this task to wet nurses or septas, but Roslin saw no reason to be parted from her little boy. Nobody else needed her, and why shouldn’t she enjoy one of the few joys life had given her? Ed was usually a joy to her, too—usually—but he often required as much soothing and placating as her three-year-old. In her experience, boys were easy. It was men that caused trouble.

Which brought her back to Ser Jaime.

Shivering, Roslin tucked her cloak more tightly around herself and left the balcony where she’d been whiling away the afternoon watching the Red Fork. All the peace she had found in watching the gentle tumble of the river had left her. Her nerves jangling, she descended the winding stairs to the gallery, intending to visit the kitchens and grab something to occupy her hands. Perhaps seed cake. She and Hoss could share it before his nap, and maybe he’d even leave the bigger piece for her. She had little appetite, but wanted distraction, and thinking of the past put her in a particular mood for seed cake. Her niece, “Fat” Walda—although she had been “Wally” to Roslin since they were girls—had fiended for seed cake, and it was one of the few ways she knew to openly honor her memory.

The gallery was near as cold as the balcony had been, but needs must. If she wanted to reach the kitchens in the Wheel Tower without running into their unwelcome guest, she’d need to steer clear of the Great Hall, and this was the fastest way around it. Also the most secret way of passing from the keep to the Wheel Tower, as she’d found when Edmure was taken by one of his black moods and had to be removed from company. The Water Gate and lower bailey did not see much traffic in times of peace. Accordingly, it was not heated, and cleaned less often than she would like. Cobwebs caught in her hair as she hurried up to the light and heat of the kitchens.

“Lady Tully. Roslin, I think? It’s been a long time.” A tall figure with a smooth voice gathered shape from the darkness. She jerked back in fright. To her horror, Jaime Lannister had _not_ been escorted to Ed’s presence. All her care to avoid him was for naught, for here he was, loitering outside the kitchens and casually greeting her as if they were old friends at a party! How crude to use her first name.

“Ser Jaime,” she gaped, unable to form any other thoughts. What was he _doing_ here? He’d been riding a horse along the river, how had he entered through the Water Gate..? But then she remembered. Ser Jaime’s own men were stationed down here, an in effort to prevent anyone from following the Blackfish’s lead and trying to fight their way out. Otherwise, many and more of their household may have attempted escape themselves rather than remain at Riverrun under the Lannisters’ hospitality. The Lannister garrison never concerned themselves with her movements, only her husband’s, and somehow she’d forgotten to be wary of them. Her stomach twisted. Two guards dressed in plain plate, but with the red cloaks of Lannisters, were dicing in a corner of the lower bailey, apparently finding their sport more interesting than Ser Jaime’s sudden appearance. They would’ve let him in, no qustions asked, and would not lift a finger if he tried to assault her. Yet she had never heard that the Kingslayer, for all his faults, was one to treat a lady roughly. She determined to meet him with icy and very proper courtesy. Edmure admired his sister Catelyn’s frostiness in the face of rude behavior, and she’d seen enough of Catelyn to do a fair imitation. If she was going to be lady of Riverrun, she should start acting the part.

“Ser Jaime, welcome. I extend you my husband’s courtesies in his absence. I regret we were not prepared for your arrival, or we’d have raised the drawbridge, but I see you found your way in all the same.”

“I did, and with rather less fanfare than before.” An understatement if she had ever heard one.

Her heart still beat strong in her chest, but she suppressed her feelings for the moment. Anger was unproductive. “My lord husband is with our master at arms at the moment, but one of your guards can escort you to guest quarters to rest until he is finished.”

The kingslayer— _Ser Jaime_ for the purposes of this conversation, she reminded herself—smirked, but there was the shape of habit about it, not malice. “I will accept your husband’s courtesies, and offer my own.”

“Just yours? Not the Queen’s?” The words escaped Roslin’s mouth before she could check herself. _So much for acting Lady of Riverrun._ Ed would laugh at her irreverence when she told him later, but she’d not intended it as disrespect. She was only desperate to learn his intentions. She inhaled deeply through her nostrils and prayed Ser Jaime was in a japing mood.

“As it happens, I only represent myself on this occasion. Well… House Lannister. But not the Queen. I’ve actually come to speak with you, Lady Tully, if you can tear yourself away from your duties…”

Roslin’s brows shot up, but she managed to otherwise compose her face to show no hint of surprise or displeasure. Ser Jaime had not come all this way to exchange pleasantries with the wife of a vassal (for realistically, that’s all House Tully was now—a vassal.) She didn’t know him well, but she’d seen enough of Tywin’s dealings with her father to be certain that Lannisters were only courteous when they wanted something. But what? The castle had already surrendered to the Crown, there were no Tully children of marriageable age, and if they wanted a loan, they would surely go to a house that wasn’t on the brink of collapse. Roslin wished she paid more attention when Maester Vyman came to visit Ed with news. “My afternoon is free, Ser. If you’ll just allow me to fetch a wet nurse to put my son down for his nap…”

Jaime ducked his head, uncomfortable, and Roslin fancied she saw a shadow cross his face as she passed him to mount the stairs to the castle proper. _What’s that about?_ she thought before filing away the question for dissection at a later date.

With luck, she spotted their maid Brynda at the back of the Great Hall. Their guest had drawn attention even in their brief walk from the water stairs to the hall, and many were staring openly. Those with better breeding kept one eye on the kingslayer and the other on their tasks, but watched all the same. There had not been so many eyes on her since her wedding. It made her jumpy. She tried to subtly summon Brynda with a nod of her head and a dash of her eyes toward the interloping Queensguard. To her credit, the maid did not scurry away with flushed cheeks, but approached the pair boldly. “You needed me, milady?”

“Yes, thank you Brynda. Ser Jaime has requested my presence while he seeks counsel with Lord Tully this afternoon. Could you please put Hoss down for his nap, and stay with him until he wakes? If he calls for me, tell him his mother is busy but will give him dinner this evening.” Brynda’s lips curved with delight at the honor of being entrusted with the little Lord, and to enjoy an hour or two free of labor. Roslin thought briefly that the girl could perhaps be moved to duty as Hoss’ nurse, if the afternoon went well, but that thought was immediately dismissed in favor of shame that she’d uttered little Hoster’s nickname in front of _Jaime Lannister_ of all people. The man who’d threatened to catapult her son had no right to hear the sweet nickname she and Ed murmured over their boy in more peaceful hours. No right! Tears of fury stung her eyes. She couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to slip, and for a moment, her rage towards the man before her threatened to overwhelm her good sense. Biting her lips, Roslin led him to an audience chamber where they could speak without being overheard. “If you’ll follow me…”

“Pray tell why you sought me out today instead of my husband. Have you come on a woman’s errand?” Mortified, Roslin regretted her phrasing at once. Most men would not admit they were on a “woman’s errand” even if it were true.

“No, I have not. My lady, might we not speak alone? I would not have your castle guard overhear my request and go carrying tales. I’d prefer to keep my visit quiet if possible.” Ser Jaime leaned forward, balancing on the balls of his feet, as if some urgency were driving him. Her own guard, Denys, who had accompanied them out of his own good sense, cleared his throat.

Roslin stepped backwards—she had an awful premonition that Ser Jaime might try to grasp her hand. “I do not spend time alone with men who are not family. It would invite gossip. Denys stays, or we go back to the Great Hall.”

She had thought this would stymie him, but he agreed. “Yes, yes, fine. I suppose my visit was never going to go unremarked.” Jaime flapped his remaining hand irritably and began pacing. “Perhaps he could wait outside the door? I didn’t come all this way for a guard to pull faces at me.”

To be frank, she didn’t want Denys marking her words to the kingslayer, either. She was unpopular enough without him spreading their conversation about the castle. “That will serve.” Wordlessly, she ushered Denys out, ignoring his look of reproach. When he was gone, she pushed the door nearly to, leaving a hands’ width of opening as a stern reminder to Ser Jaime that they were not alone.

“I’ve come because I have a burdensome request to ask of your husband,” he charged on as soon as she was finished. “I intend to make it worth his while, but last time we met, we parted on less than friendly terms.” He ignored Roslin’s huff of indignation. “Now, don’t do that. I know he won’t listen to me, but he might listen to his lady wife.”

“And what exactly makes you think that? I am a Frey, lest you forget.”

Jaime scoffed. “I had the dubious pleasure of meeting both of his sisters. They must have been encouraged to speak up from a young age, else they wouldn’t be so bold. I’ll wager Edmure was taught to respect them, as the youngest. He’ll not disrespect his lady wife no matter the family she comes from.” He dropped his voice. “He was so eager to have you back, he was willing to surrender Riverrun to me. You and your boy—Hoster, is it?—are the most important things in the world to him. I think if anyone could convince him of something, it’s you.”

Smoothing her skirts, Roslin took a moment to mull over his speech. He was correct, Ed often sought her counsel about important matters, for he had missed much being kept as a prisoner for years. He always heard her out even if he didn’t take her advice. It was one of the things she first learned to admire about him, his desire to have a partner, not a slave. But she and Ed had barely known each other when he was released as the Lannister’s prisoner. The Edmure Tully that Ser Jaime knew would have borne no especial love for her—not then. Could he really be trying to sway her with flattery, after he’d threatened her child? Even in King’s Landing that would be considered unseemly! She wished, not for the first time, that she had the courage to stand up for herself. “Please just tell me what this mysterious request is all about, Ser.”

Jaime stopped pacing about five feet from the half closed-door to the hall and looked at her straight on, as though he were speaking to another man. “You may not have heard yet, travel conditions being what they are, but I have given up my title as Queensguard and renounced my sister. I expect this means I forfeit my claim to Casterly Rock as well. So be it.” He gestured with his golden hand, looking cross. “Furthermore I have pledged to fight for Winterfell in the battles to come. I’ll set off North tomorrow, if your husband does not detain me. My last act as a Lannister is to withdraw any of my men that still occupy Riverrun, and restore full and legal possession of these lands to your lord husband.” His errand announced, he finally sat.

Her eyes widened. “Oh!” was all she could say. She should perhaps be more pleased, she thought, but the shock prevented her from feeling much of anything. There was much in his short speech to turn over in her mind, so many pieces of news jostling for her utmost attention. The Queen was alone. Casterly Rock had no heir. The Starks were warring again. Riverrun was theirs! Her thoughts slithered over one another, each of them too slippery to catch and hold on to. “Oh,” she repeated, still stunned. “Ah… I’ll speak to Edmure, he’ll need to think it over. I can’t make any decisions for him.” She paused. “The rest of your garrison will be leaving with you? Why are you going to Winterfell? …And you still haven’t gotten to your request?”

Jaime waved her questions away, as if shooing a fly. “We’ll discuss my mens’ withdrawal later, although I expect they’ll return to Casterly Rock for whatever cousin seizes our seat to deal with. I’m going to Winterfell to fight, as I told you. I… promised my service to another knight. I had hoped that if your lord husband felt any small goodwill toward me after the restoration of your home, he might march with me to their aid.”

“But why? The Stark children have already retaken their home from the Boltons. The news must have reached you in the South… but perhaps not.”

The former Lannister looked at her again with that frank gaze. “Lady Roslin, how much contact does your husband have with his nieces and nephews?”

“Not much,” she confessed. “We have the occasional raven from Sansa. I think the most recent one brought news of Jon Snow’s election as King in the North.”

“They haven’t requested aid?” He looked flabbergasted, which only served to unnerve her more.

“Not that I know of. Ed has never been close with them, he hasn’t seen Sansa in years and he’s never met Arya or Brandon. I don’t think they’d ask him for anything unless their need was truly great. Ser Jaime, what’s this about?”

By the time Jaime was done, the shadows on the floor had lengthened considerably, and their guard had checked in on them twice. Roslin thought it was well past time to involve Edmure, if any of this was indeed true, but Jaime spoke as if a torrent had been loosed. After the first five minutes or so, he stopped even hearing her interjections. He seemed so burdened by the news he brought that Roslin even felt a pang of pity for him. Only the merest drop, but still—pity. She was seeing him as a man for the first time, not as the wicked specter who’d imprisoned her husband and threatened their child, and she was seeing a troubled soul. The harried, careworn man before her was nothing like the ghoul Edmure had described.

She was jarred out of these uncomfortable thoughts when Ser Jaime abruptly stopped speaking. His throat worked to wet itself, as he come to the realization that he had been speaking long enough to stoke a thirst. Roslin strode past him and poked her head out the door, summoning Denys with a crook of her finger. “Water for our guest, please,” she murmured, “And quickly.” The guard, an easygoing sort, nodded to her and headed toward the kitchens.

“My thanks,” said Ser Jaime when she returned with water. “I’ve never had to do so much speaking at one time. That is Tyrion’s domain. It’s thirsty work.”

“Ser Jaime, if I may be frank—“

“You may.”

That irritated her, his casual assumption of the role of host. “The threat you have described indeed sounds chilling, but I’m not convinced that this isn’t a ruse. I doubt you would go to the trouble of creating this wild story just to embarrass us, but it seems even less likely that the tales my nurse told me as a child have a basis in fact. We have little reason to trust you. If you could offer proof of these, these wights, perhaps… but intrigue and conspiracies are not my tools of trade.”

Jaime smiled without mirth. “Do you mean to say you have learned nothing at your father’s knee?”

Roslin, who had turned away, bit her lip. “My father taught us that ladies were only good for one thing, and it doesn’t require much thinking,” she said quietly. “I am not fearless like your lady Queen or the dragon woman you speak of. I am only a wife and mother. It is not in me to plot and scheme.”

A burst of laughter startled her. “That’s what you tell people, perhaps.”

Frowning, Roslin shot back, “I am only doing what is proper. You may not be familiar with propriety.”

“You have just listened to my fantastic tale without interrupting in order to note all of the details, correctly presumed that I am up to something, and attempted to deflect me until you can seek more information and consult another source. You’ve even played on my sympathies by referring to your father, who I assume you must loathe. It’s a pity that you’re not the heir to the Twins.”

“I might be, now. You killed the rest of my family.” Tears welled up in her eyes that she did not even try to suppress. When she had word of the massacre at the Twins several months ago, she had wept without ceasing. No matter what their parents had done, children and innocents never deserved to suffer. Many of the young men killed that day had no choice in their fates, would have shed their Frey heritage in a trice if offered the right opportunity. Ed, dimly aware that he should be comforting her but having no idea what to do, had offered to challenge Jaime to single combat for his crimes once he had recovered from his long imprisonment. When she had laughed at this obvious farce, she had set off a long chain of hiccups.

Even as she struggled with her disdain at Ser Jaime’s hollow compliment, she knew it woud be folly to weep in front of him as she would her husband. Some of the hardest men could be softened by a woman’s tears, but not him. 

“Lady Roslin, I swear to you. I had nothing to do with what happened to your family. I visited the Twins, yes, but when I left, everyone was still hale and hearty. Well—they were alive, at any rate. Your father could never be called hearty. He called for more ale as he saw me off.” Jaime strode across the small space as if to comfort her, but stopped short when he saw the wrath on her usually placid face. “I won’t deny that my sister the Queen may have had a hand in it, but if she did, I didn’t know.” He cocked his head then, as a thought occurred to him, but whatever it was, he didn’t choose to share it.

He seemed well and truly flummoxed, and this calmed her. Ser Jaime might be quick with a sharp word, but this conversation had impressed upon her the feeling that he was no more mentally gifted than she. She felt sure there was some part of this plot that hadn’t surfaced yet for either of them. Quickly, while he was still lost in thought, Roslin wiped her eyes on her sleeves, steadied herself, and turned to face him. “This is not why you sought me out, to cry over our lost loved ones. You want to free Riverrun and request our aid for Winterfell, that is the purpose of your coming. Will you accompany me to see Ed now? Or would you have me coat this story in sugar, and serve it to him while you rest?” Her voice wavered from her recent teariness, but the strength of her message shone through.

After a brief pause; “Yes,” Jaime confirmed with a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to ask more of you, I know you have endured much already at my hand. But I must ask one more favor, for the good of your people… and mine.”

Dinner preparations had begun when Roslin finished relaying the highlights of their discussion to Edmure, back in their solar. The sweet, homey odor of baked apples permeated every room in their end of the castle, lending an inappropriate banal quality to the conversation. Downstairs, people continued to move about their daily tasks in an uplifting end-of-day bustle. _I never thought plotting treason would feel so ordinary,_ she thought, emotions dulled by so much speech. No matter what she had told Ser Jaime, Roslin could not avoid picking up some things from her father. Walder had favored secret missives, hidden messages, and shadowy meetings in the dead of night when he was plotting something. To carry on with dinner after discussing a betrayal of the Queen seemed wrong somehow—it failed to lend the situation its property gravity. Roslin wondered if her father had planned his daily calendar in order to maximize the intrigue of such a situation. _7 o’clock, dinner. Half past eight, retire to bed. Nine, bed wife. Quarter after nine, berate wife for crying. Eleven, cloak self and meet the Bolton ambassador in the woods to discuss murdering the Starks._ _Midnight, light snack._ She suppressed a snort of laughter.

Ed sneered up at her. “This is no time for jokes. That Lannister bastard has left us no choice; refuse him and face the wrath of his garrison, or betray the Queen. I don’t know what he’s plotting this time, but it comes to no good for any of us.”

Roslin settled for a small, tight smile. “I’m sorry, my love, I was just thinking that I wish I’d paid more attention to my father’s tricks. Maybe if I had I could be more helpful to you now.”

“I don’t need any help,” he snapped, but soon thought better of it. “I apologize, I—I cannot make heads or tails of this. He’s trying to force our hand, that’s clear, but why? We’re already under their control. I know what will happen if we break from the Queen, but there must be some other consequence if we refuse to march north with—him.” Edmure tried to avoid speaking Jaime’s name whenever possible. “There’s no time to try and guess what he’s at, either. He intends to ride tomorrow, you said?”

“Yes,” Roslin agreed. She folded her hands in her seated lap to steady herself. “He is trying to force a hasty decision, I’m certain of it. What I don’t understand is why he chose _this_ story. Wraiths beyond the wall? Dragons? An army of the dead? It sounds too fantastic. Either he thinks we’re very dim, or he believes this lunacy himself.”

“Well, I never got the impression that Jaime Lannister was intelligent.” He rose and walked to the window, surveying the river, just beginning to turn to coral in the sunset. “No, someone else’s hand is in this. The Queen will be feeding him lies, and trusting his belief will let him act the part convincingly. But why? If she needed our army at Winterfell, she need only ask. We can’t disobey a direct order from her, not in the state we’re in now.” Ed bit his lip. “An ambush on the road, maybe?”

“If she would ambush us, why give us the castle back? Our men at arms would die, yes, but their wives and children could fortify Riverrun’s defenses. It would take months or years to starve us out.” 

Edmure gave her a genuine smile then. “Months or years to starve _you_ out, you mean. Queen Cersei hasn’t reckoned with the likes of Roslin Tully.” He sat and took her hand in his, smile fading. “Ros, what are we going to do?”

“You should write to your cousins.” She sighed. “I know you don’t feel you can trust them, but we may not have anyone else. I’ve always heard that Sansa is very like her mother, and I know you loved Cat. Maybe part of her feels a duty to your family—”

But Edmure would hear none of her thoughts on Sansa Stark, and launched into another topic. “What of this Jon Snow? He’s no relation of mine, and he’s spent years wasting away at the Wall. And now he, a bastard, is elected King in the North? Why not Brandon, Ned Stark’s true son? I can’t work it out—” He stopped short and his eyes began to glimmer faintly. “Ros—what if the Queen has gotten to this Jon Snow? Promised him a kingdom in exchange for doing her dirty work? He’s already bypassed all the remaining Starks to rule the north, and eliminated the Boltons. He was hovering around Stannis Baratheon before his death. Now he’s supposed to be close with this dragon queen from the East. If he turns on her too… who is left to stand against Queen Cersei?” Edmure began pacing the room in a grim imitation of Jaime, hours earlier. “Think a moment. Somehow she convinces Jon Snow to aid her in exchange for legitimacy and a crown. If this Targaryen girl dies, too, there are no other contenders to the throne and no great houses strong enough to stand up to her—except House Arryn, consisting of a single boy known to be a Stark sympathizer. She forces us to send our rivermen up to join the Starks, the remaining northmen, and the men of the Vale at Winterfell. Then….” He mimed a hammer coming down. “Jon Snow reveals his true colors, just in time to crush us.”

She furrowed her brow, turning over all her husband had said. “That doesn’t explain why she sent Jaime to us, she could have just sent a raven. Or had Jon request our aid himself.”

“Yes, why would she send her brother into harm’s way..? Unless… Ros, what if she _promised to marry Jon Snow?_ ” The wild light in Ed’s eyes was beginning to scare her. “She wouldn’t want her former lover butting in on them. If she sends her brother north, and he dies with everyone else at Winterfell, then she’s rid of the only person in the world who can testify to her abominations, _and_ any children of her and Jon’s would be set to inherit Casterly Rock. She brings the North back into the fold and lands a virile young husband in one swoop. She’s not so old she can’t whelp one or two more children. And Jon’s spent the years of his manhood amongst men and wildlings, even Cersei’s prickly cunt might seem appealing to him. Ros, it all makes sense!”

Roslin wasn’t sure any of that made sense, although she agreed in a broad sense that Jon Snow could be a problem. She had bastard brothers of her own, and they were, well… bastards. Even in her earliest memories they were always grasping and thrusting and contorting themselves to win favor from Lord Walder. The bits and pieces she’d heard about Jon Snow over the years suggested that he was an honorable man, but she’d heard that about Robb Stark too, and he had spurned her all the same. Jon had rid the world of Ramsey Bolton, but had he been motivated by justice or greed? She feared she wasn’t sophisticated enough to read the situation, and was certain Ed could not think clearly when Lannisters were involved. If Walda were here, she would have provided a good dose of common sense—but she had been murdered by the same man Jon Snow had defeated. Maybe that would have to be enough.

“Ed, that could very well be true, but Jon may just be taking advantage of the opportunities handed to him. We need to tread softly around him until we know more. I know you have to ride out with—that man—tomorrow, but would you write to your nephew first and see if you can find out more? If anyone knows something unsavory about Jon Snow, it would be him.”

The dejected look on Ed’s face told her he had reached a similar conclusion. “You speak the truth as always, Roslin. I’ll write to Brandon tonight and send it by our fastest ravens. And tomorrow I’ll ride out with—I’ll ride north, and try to delay us as much as possible.” He went to her then, and pulled her up gently by the arms, gazing at her face as if trying to memorize it. “By the Seven, I wish it were any other way. I wish you could ride out with me, and that Hoss was old enough to come too. But I won’t put you in danger, and if the Lannisters catch me up at last, I want you to carry on.” He buried his face in her hair, and with sorrow Roslin realized he was hiding his tears from her. She wished he wouldn’t. _Who will comfort him, if not me?_ “I’ll leave you my seal, so you may hold Riverrun on my behalf, and make decisions as you see fit. You have my utmost confidence. Before I leave, I’ll make sure everyone who stays here with you knows it.”

“But—” she started.

“If you hear back from Brandon,” he continued, raising his voice, “Send a rider to meet me, the fastest we have. Use Ryman, he can be trusted.”

The determined note in his voice made Roslin’s own tears start. “And what if Brandon has nothing to say, or your message doesn’t reach him?” she said thickly.

Ed pulled away and held her at arm’s length, making a vain attempt at a smile. “Let’s hope I can outstmart Jaime Lannister.”

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. She did give little Hoster his dinner, as promised, but she barely registered his happy babbles. Her thoughts were full of Edmure, and Ser Jaime, and snow, and steel, and bones. As she put her boy down to sleep again, she agonized over what her husband and their captor were saying to each other. Her husband was a smart man, but he also had a temper, and had never been taught to keep it in check. Little Hoster, thankfully, did not share this quality with his father, and went to sleep without fuss. After kissing him on his forehead and creeping out of his nursery, Roslin ascended the steps to her and Ed’s bedroom. It was dark out and the lingering scent of apples had long since been quenched by the smoke of extinguished candles, but she had a feeling that her evening was not quite over.

That night she and Ed made love twice, once with frantic urgency and once slowly and almost sadly. He was reluctant to part from her again. She too had to choke back tears in the last few moments of their coupling. They were both aware that they might never be together again, but were reluctant to give voice to such gloomy thoughts. _Ten moons. We have only lived as man and wife for ten moons._ When it was over, Roslin burrowed into her husband’s side and lay one slender arm across his torso. In her smallest voice, she said, “Ed, you have to come out of this. It’s too unfair if you don’t.”

He sighed. “That’s the way of it, love. I want nothing more than to live many long years with you and Hoss and the children yet to come. I’d trade my lordship and castle for a small homestead, if it meant the powers that be would leave us alone. But neither of us were born to that.” He enlaced his fingers with hers. “Death spared us once. Maybe it will do so again.”

Ed and Ser Jaime rode off before dawn with little fanfare. Roslin decided she would not watch him go, a decision Ed agreed with. Surely the gods would not be so cruel as to take her husband from her without a goodbye. Instead, she devoted herself to drafting a message to Brandon Stark in Ed’s name.

> _To Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, from his loving uncle:_
> 
> _Word has come to me that you and your family seek the assistance of Riverrun. I confess I do not know what troubles assail you, but for mutual love of my sister and your mother, I offer my aid. I ride north with my men on the sixth day of the fourth moon._
> 
> _Ser Jaime Lannister of the Queen’s Guard accompanies us. He says he has promised his word to another knight that he will come to your aid as well. I am not familiar with the knight of whom he speaks, as I understand there are but few knights in the north, but I hope you will send word to this man if you recognize him._
> 
> _If you receive this message, please write to me as soon as you are able. I will write to His Grace Jon Snow separately, but I wanted to send word to my kin to expect me._

To Jon Snow, she wrote:

> _To His Grace Jon Snow, King in the North, from Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun:_
> 
> _Ser Jaime Lannister has arrived today to enlist the forces of Riverrun for Winterfell’s defense. I ride north with him on this, the sixth day of the fourth moon, bringing some 500 bannermen._

Roslin sealed both missives with the blue wax of house Tully. She would send Brandon’s letter out as soon as a raven could be readied; Jon Snow’s could wait one more day. A day’s lag between the two ravens could be chalked up to weather or chance instead of gamesmanship, but no more. She only hoped Brandon’s letter would reach him unsullied, and that Jon would not read anything into the delay. And she trusted that Brandon was not being held captive, and that he had his mother’s wits, and that the gods were good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not clear when Edmure is released from captivity. He is still the Lannisters' prisoner in season 6, episode 8. When we see him again in season 8, episode 6, he looks healthy and well-groomed, not like someone who's just been released from a dungeon. Presumably he returned to Riverrun at some point before season 8 begins. For this story, I have assumed he was released after surrendering Riverrun to Jaime but before the Freys are killed, or else he would've died at the Twins.


	3. Missandei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys has an important announcement, and Missandei encounters some trouble in White Harbor.

Missandei awoke to the crash of waves. The pale light of dawn spilled through the window and caressed her face, warming her skin and making her squint. It could not be morning already. Lazily, she tucked a stray tuft of hair behind her ear, and rolled over out of the sun’s gaze. Her right arm draped itself across her lover’s chest. _And I was having such a good dream_ , she lamented as she lay there, willing her body to go back to sleep. On mornings like this, in the inn next to the sea with a fire blazing in the hearth, it was easy to pretend that White Harbor was actually the shores of Naath. The waters of the White Knife were not as troubled as the Summer Sea, and if she stepped outside, the cold wind of the North would prove to be sharper than the gentle breezes of her island home. But it would have to do, until she could return. She snuggled into Grey Worm’s back. _Just a bit longer._

Though she could not see Grey Worm’s face, she sensed that he, too, was awake. He lifted her right hand, entwined with his, and kissed it. There would be no more sleep today, then. “Good morning,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to the back of his neck. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, my Missandei, this one sleeps best next to you.” He folded her right arm to his chest. “There are no bad dreams.”

Missandei smiled against his skin. “I was having a good dream, too. We were in Naath, and it was summertime.”

“This one would like that. It is too cold for men to live here. Maybe all the people of this kingdom are dead, not just the ones beyond the Wall.”

Missandei laughed. “That would explain why they are all so pale. When I met our Queen, I thought she was special, but everyone else here looks like her!”

Grey Worm chuckled quietly, a sound that always thrilled her. She did not think that anyone else living had ever heard him laugh. “This one does not want to insult our Queen’s people, but they look as mean as Unsullied.”

They both tried to stifle their giggles out of courtesy for the inn’s other guests, but soon they were shaking with helpless laughter. Missandei was devoted to Queen Daenerys, and accordingly, had shared her feelings about the Sunset Lands with her. It was the Queen’s home, after all, but she had not found that it had other features to recommend it. It was a relief to learn that Grey Worm shared her misgivings.

Still snickering, Grey Worm rolled over and trapped her underneath him, supporting himself on his left arm. “Does Missandei of Naath like when this one is mean? Or when this one is sweet?”

She grinned up at him, undaunted by his teasing. “I like both.” She twined her arms around Grey Worm’s neck and kissed him, and soon the morning stillness fell again as they took comfort in each other.

As the only responsibility on her books was to review Daenerys’ incoming correspondence, Missandei was reluctant to rise from bed afterward. She had not known such leisure since she was a child, and was loathe to let go of it. Grey Worm was not so lucky. He left her an hour after sunrise to drill with the remaining Unsullied. After he departed, she dozed in fits and starts until the lonely bed grew chilly enough to make her dreary Northern clothing seem warm and appealing.

In the absence of other tasks, Missandei had made quite a ritual of readying herself for the day. Her bath, which since Meereen had been limited to hasty scrubbings with lukewarm water, became an hour-long affair. She had learned that the maids of the inn did not like to talk to her, but would happily bring her hot water all day long if it meant she stayed confined to her room. At first she had been offended, but had decided to take comfort in the fact that she could soak in a warm bath until her fingers pruned while they cooked and cleaned. She shifted in the steamy water and brought her knees up to her chest, thinking over everything that had happened to her and Grey Worm and her Queen since they left Meereen. Instead of the triumphant homecoming they anticipated, the retaking of Dragonstone had been a solemn and unheralded affair. She did not know whether to attribute this to a lack of support for the Queen, or the generally grim dispositions of the westerners. It meant so much to Daenerys to walk once again on the soil of her homeland, but the North’s request for aid had been a complete surprise to them all, and she wondered if Dany had pledged to help them simply because they were the only kingdom to acknowledge her arrival. And when she saw the sparkle in Dany’s eyes when she looked upon the King in the North Jon Snow, Missandei knew the conquest of Westeros was going to be more complicated than any of them had expected.

Jon Snow seemed a good enough sort, she supposed. He listened more than most men, and she was quite impressed with his choice of advisor, Ser Davos. Still. This man could give her Queen nothing. Even with her sparse knowledge of Westerosi history, she knew the North was the least prosperous and most backwards of the seven kingdoms. It was not a place where she would choose to spend any time. Yet here they were, pledged to mine the resources of Daenerys’ own lands to give them weapons. Missandei attacked her shoulders and upper back with the rough rag she had been given to wash. Her Queen was strong-willed, but she knew what love could do to even the fiercest warrior.

When the bath cooled, and the direction of her thoughts started to trouble her, Missandei emerged from the bath and toweled off, careful not to let the cold touch her bare skin any more than necessary. She dressed in her robe—drab and scratchy, but warm—and made ready to address the small pile of letters to Daenerys that had accumulated since the previous day. She could not receive ravens on her ship, and entrusted Missandei to handle things in her absence.

She broke the seal of the first letter, gray wax impressed with a kraken. Her heartbeat quickened as she recognized Lady Yara’s seal—had she escaped?!—but it proved to be from her uncle Euron instead, now styling himself “Consort in waiting of Her Grace Queen Cersei.” A formal declaration of war. Rolling her eyes, she tore the missive in two and tossed it into the fire. Ill news, but not unexpected, and she had to laugh at his presumptuousness. “Consort in waiting” was not a formal title in any of the nineteen languages she spoke. She noted “Dec. of war—Euron Greyjoy (possibly deranged)” on her ledger. 

The next two letters were not worth the parchment they were written on; tepid expressions of welcome from Houses Stokeworth and Velaryon, wishing Daenerys luck in retaking her seat but not pledging any men or supplies to her cause. These went into the fire as well. Nevertheless, she noted them down as possible future allies in her tidy script. They were both former vassals of House Targaryen. Perhaps they could be won over again.

The fourth and last scroll was from Daenerys herself, marked with the black dragon of the Targaryens. It was shorter than usual. She opened the scroll and read;

> _To Missandei of Naath, my scribe and trusted friend:_
> 
> _I have discovered why the usurper Cersei has agreed to aid us! Tyrion tells me that she confessed she is with child again during their private meeting, and that has made her more willing to listen to reason. She claims the baby is Euron Greyjoy’s. Tyrion feels otherwise. I’m inclined to believe him, for I doubt Euron would truly desert her if she was carrying his heir.”_ Missandei frowned—Euron’s letter gave the opposite impression. _“In any case, Tyrion has stressed to me how much she loves her children, and he knows her better than almost anyone. I will delay my decision of whether or not to trust her promises until I speak to someone else who has known her well. Jon tells me that his sister Sansa, who is married to Tyrion (!!), spent a few years under her thumb. We should seek an audience with her immediately when we arrive at Winterfell and find out if she has any insight. I trust Tyrion not to lie to me, but men do not know anything of childbirth and a mother’s love._
> 
> _There is one more matter of great importance that I must trust you with. Jon Snow intends to relinquish his title of King in the North. He has pledged his people’s support to me, as well as his heart. We intend to marry in White Harbor and enter Winterfell as a Queen and her consort. I confess that my brother taught me little of Westerosi wedding customs, so I cannot be of much help with the preparations, but Jon has expressed a wish for the ceremony to take place before a heart tree. Can you find out if such a tree exists in White Harbor, or nearby? All other preparations, I entrust to you, and will not fault you if you can come up with but little on such short notice._
> 
> _Signed,_
> 
> _Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the_ _Khaleesi_ _of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains_
> 
> _P.S. Can you have one of my grey or black gowns made into a bridal cloak for the wedding? It should have Jon’s sigil, a direwolf, on it according to custom. But I think it should have my dragon as well._
> 
> _P.P.S. Can you believe Tyrion is married?! I never knew.”_

Missandei slowly lowered the letter from her Queen into her lap. Her head was swimming. What was she to do with this information? Shouldn’t she be happy? Jon Snow did seem the earnest sort, a man to treat his wife kindly. And Daenerys deserved someone to cuddle up with at night, and speak her fears to, someone who would love her as a woman and not a queen. But… it was so _fast_. And they were so different. But, she reminded herself, it was not her place to question her queen. She would share her misgivings with Grey Worm, and then lock them up tightly in her breast, never to be examined again.

Her focus turned toward the other news in the letter, even though the concept of a Westerosi wedding was fascinating to her. This news of a possible heir to the Iron Throne was far more troubling than Euron’s “declaration of war”. Though could this potential child even inherit, if its mother and father were not married? Despite Jorah’s, and later Tyrion’s, lengthy explanations, she had never quite got a handle on how the concept of bastardy worked in the Seven Kingdoms. Sometimes bastards were denied by their fathers (like the blacksmith that went about with Ser Davos); sometimes they were recognized and even placed in the line of succession, but behind any legitimate children (in the case of Tyrion’s cousin Joy Hill). In some cases, as with Jon Snow, a bastard could even take precedence over his legitimate siblings. There did not seem to be a hard and fast rule. Really, the way her people did things was much more sensible.

Sighing, she returned to her ledger. It was always easier to present ideas to her Queen if her thoughts were arranged tidily. This called for a list.

  * _North has bent the knee to Queen Daenerys. If Jon Snow abdicates, who inherits Winterfell? Older sister (Sansa) or young brother (??) Do they need to agree to Jon’s decision?_
  * _Wedding_
    * _Who performs the marriage?_
    * _Heart tree?_
    * _Find someone to alter Daenerys’ dress into a bridal cloak_
    * _What does a direwolf look like?_
  * _Usurper’s heir – Would he/she inherit the throne? Is the child actually Euron’s?_
  * _Sansa Stark_
    * _Schedule private meeting_
    * _Tyrion’s wife? What happened there?_



She scratched out her initial note on Euron for clarity’s sake. There, that was better, but there was still much to do. How was she going to find a tailor in this place?? She loved Daenerys, but honestly, sometimes she expected too much.

On a tip from the snooty innkeep, Missandei visited a house on the west end of town with Daenerys’ least extravagant dress. She departed with promises to pick up the cloak in five days’ time a quarter of an hour later and with a considerably lighter purse. The tailor had been very interested to know why a woman of the Sunset Sea would need direwolf embroidery. Thinking fast, she spun a story about visiting dignitaries bringing presents to House Stark, but the tailor’s face remained doubtful, and she was sure the rumor of an impending Stark marriage would be all over town by the evening. She had decided against mentioning the Targaryen dragon at all. If needs must, they could attach a dragon-shaped clasp to the cloak themselves. Ser Davos did a bit of sewing.

The matter of the heart tree would require more finesse. Missandei’s face was drawing attention everywhere, and if she was seen inquiring about the tree, someone would be sure to connect her with the mysterious direwolf cloak. Then there would be no question that a marriage was brewing. Everyone she knew in Westeros was currently on a boat, so there was not even someone she could write to for help.

As she stood ruminating in the town square, she noticed a small crowd of rowdy men gathered not far away. They appeared to be drunk, though it was not yet evening, and did not appear to be engaged in any particular pursuit. Sailors, probably. They were already eyeing her hopefully. _Keep moving and don’t make eye contact_ , she told herself. She strode past them in the direction of the harbor, hoping they would take her for a rich merchant’s foreign maid instead of a whore.

One of the men had already sensed easy prey, however, and began to lurch after her. She quickened her pace. “’Ere, sweets, I just want a word with ye,” he called after her. “Where are you going in such a hurry?” He grabbed at her arm.

Missandei tried to twist out of his grasp, but he was steady for a drunk. “My lord has sent me on an errand,” she said in her most formal voice. “I mean no disrespect, but I must be getting back. Please let me go.”

“Your lord?” He looked at her suspiciously, his beetle-black brows scrunching in a vain attempt to understand the situation. “Lord Manderly has no foreign maid, I know that. You Dornish?”

“I serve Hizdahr zo Loraq, fourteenth of that noble name,” she said with false reverence, lowering her eyes. _He’ll never remember that_ , she thought with bitter satisfaction. People who spoke only one language were always terrible with names. “We were bound for Pentos when a storm blew us off course. We are taking on provisions and resting in your fair city for a few nights.”

The rest of the man’s companions who were still ambulatory had caught up with him, and to her horror, one of them appeared to recognize the name. “Hizdahr zo Loraq?” asked a short, wiry man with straw-colored hair, scratching himself. “What’s a Meereenese noble want in Pentos, eh?”

Missandei tried to hide her surprise. “He is researching new avenues of trade now that the slave markets have closed,” she lied hastily.

“I was in Yunkai not long ago, and didn’t hear nothing about this.”

“My lord likes to keep trade secrets to himself.”

The straw-haired man observed her with all the care a drunk could manage. “What’s he got you doing out here alone, then? If I were him, I’d keep a pretty thing like you close to me all the time.” He leered, showing a mouthful of stained teeth.

Though the first man still gripped her forearm, and her heart was pounding, an idea was beginning to form in the back of her mind. “Well—if you’ll promise to help me,” she stalled. “My lord was interested in acquiring some heart trees.”

“You mean weirwoods?”

“Yes, exactly,” she agreed. She had not realized these trees were one and the same, but she knew about weirwoods. Their wood was prized even in the markets of the East. “He thinks that if the climate is right, we can plant weirwoods outside the city and possibly export their timber. Since we’re in White Harbor by a happy accident, he sent me to find out if there are any weirwoods growing in the area that he can purchase.”

The first man laughed. “Only one around here, Miss…?”

“Kinvara,” she lied.

“Kinvara, then. We have the great tree in the godswood, but Lord Manderly couldn’t sell that even if he wanted to. It grows right through the walls of the Wolf’s Den.” The other men were growing less interested as he talked, and to her relief, they started to drift away. “Might be you could buy some seeds, though.”

“Thank you, my lord will appreciate this information. Where can I find the Wolf’s Den?”

He looked at her in confusion. “It’s on the inner harbor, just follow the wall down there. You should be able to see it from your ship.”

“I’m sure my lord will know the building you speak of. I’ll tell him.” The man did not make any move to go, though the conversation had spent itself. He just kept staring at her. Missandei fancied she could see wheels turning in his head. If he weren’t drunk, he would already have figured out that her story didn’t make much sense. Weirwood trees in Slaver’s Bay? Nonsense. “And I’ll ask him to give you a reward for your information,” she improvised. That did it—his dark eyes lit up with greed. “Find the ship with the three red ants on the sails, and tell anyone aboard that you are looking for Kinvara and your reward.” She had no idea who that ship belonged to, it was the first one she had seen when they sailed into White Harbor.

He nodded in assent, and finally released her arm. “Will you give me a reward too when I see you again, sweetling?”

Nothing could disgust her more, but she granted him what she hoped was a winning smile in an attempt to extricate herself. “If my lord does not have need of me, sir.”

He laughed suddenly. “Well, all right then. I’ll see you when it gets dark, sweetling.” Finally— _finally_ —he turned and sauntered away, a new spring in his step.

Missandei hustled off at last for the city wall, and the Wolf’s Den. At least she had gotten some information out of the encounter. With luck, she could still get back to the inn by the time this man set out in search of his “reward.” She dearly hoped that no woman named Kinvara was aboard that ship.

“So I went down to the harbor to have a look at this weirwood, and it’s really quite extraordinary, I’ve never seen a tree as big as that even in Naath. It’s so big they built the Wolf’s Den _around_ it. I don’t know how we’re going to get inside, though, all the windows are barred. It looks like a prison,” she worried to Grey Worm in their room later that evening. He had been as stunned at the news of Daenerys’ wedding as she had been, although only someone very familiar with him would have noticed any change in his expression. Now, he rubbed his forehead in thought.

“This one does not like the idea of his Queen marrying in a prison. It is a bad omen.”

“I agree, but that’s what she wants. Maybe these sunsetters don’t know how to read the signs.”

“Our Queen knows better, though.” His restless hand moved from his forehead to his chin. “No, she says this request is from Jon Snow. Maybe his people worship these trees, but why build a prison around it? Is this the way of the North?”

“Daenerys says White Harbor is not the true North. The lord of these lands is originally from further south, I think.”

Grey Worm looked faintly alarmed at the news that places colder and more remote than White Harbor existed. “Why would the lord leave a nice warm place for this??”

Missandei laughed. “I was wondering the same thing.”

Grey Worm smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Jon Snow. Maybe he is not good for our Queen. He does not seem bad, not like men who asked for her hand in Meereen, but she listens too much to him.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine what he must have said to convince her to _marry_ him. Do you remember when she was thinking of wedding Hizdahr? She only considered it when her city was on the verge of revolution.” Missandei flopped down on the bed next to Grey Worm, glad that she could, for once, dispense with decorum. “I just don’t know what she sees in him.”

“Some women think he is good-looking.”

“I don’t know about that. He’s a bit serious for me.” She rolled onto her side, tucking her chin into her chest, and shot a bashful smile at Grey Worm.

“Yes, you like lively men, like this one. ‘Life of party,’ Tyrion would say.’” Grey Worm, deadpan, did an amusing seated rendition of a Westerosi jig. Tyrion had tried to teach it to both of them in Meereen, after several cups of wine. Neither of them had taken to it at the time. She was surprised he still remembered the steps.

Laughing, Missandei stood and pulled him up with her. “Shall we dance, my love?” They linked hands and loped, giddy, around the small room of the inn, colliding with furniture and bumping heads as they struggled to remember the dance steps Tyrion had shown them long ago. They were working up to a vigorous, if inaccurate, go-round when someone below them banged angrily on the ceiling.

Missandei giggled as they slowed their steps. “That’s enough for tonight, unless we want to be thrown out. We’ll have to remember this for Daenerys’ wedding.”

She sat down on the bed as Grey Worm bowed to her. “If Missandei will favor this one with a dance again.”

“Always.” She crawled under the covers. “Come to bed.”

As she made herself comfortable, Grey Worm checked the lock on their door and peered out the window next to their bed. There was little chance the man from the market would manage to track her down, and she had told him so, but he still worried. She was convinced he would be up half the night, listening for noises in the street. She was touched that he cared so much for her, but it would do no good to worry. Trouble would find them whether or not they looked for it.

At last, Grey Worm drew the shutters closed and extinguished the remaining candles. He added another log to the fire before snuggling in next to her.

“Your feet are cold,” he complained as her toes wiggled their way between his calves. “You should wear socks to bed.”

“Yours are cold too!”

“Maybe this one should also wear socks to bed,” he grumbled.

They were silent for a while, listening to the fire crackling in the hearth and the ceaseless whine of the wind outside. Missandei gave thanks to the Lord of Harmony that she was inside on a night like this, and spared a thought for poor Daenerys, who must be very cold indeed on her boat, even with Jon Snow to warm her.

The night of Daenerys’ wedding was bitter cold and full of turbulent winds. Though, as Ser Davos had hopefully pointed out, it was no worse than the day before, or the day before that. Missandei considered the weather an ill omen, but she supposed the people of the North couldn’t be picky; otherwise there would be no marriages to speak of.

The wedding customs of northern Westeros, as explained to her, were as follows; the bride and groom’s friends and relations bore torches to illuminate the ceremony, which was always at night, and gathered around the weirwood tree. Then the bride’s head of household (who was actually Daenerys, but someone else would fill in for the purposes of this particular wedding) would escort her to the groom and “give her away.” Then the groom’s head of household (who was actually Jon Snow, but someone else would fill in for the purposes of this particular wedding) would ask a series of legally binding questions. If both the bride and groom agreed, they would kneel in prayer, and rise up as man and wife. Then everyone would drink and dance and make merry. That last part, at least, made sense to her.

That evening, she helped Daenerys into her bridal gown, a splendid concoction of red silk and black gauze that did little to protect her Queen from the cold. Daenerys had assured her that they would not be outside long enough to get cold. Regardless, the faithful scribe had made a mental note to bring along a warm wool cloak for use before the ceremony. As she braided her Queen’s hair, she dared to speak of her misgivings about the marriage. Perhaps, if she was having second thoughts… She asked Daenerys haltingly whether she wouldn’t prefer to wait until the army of the dead had been defeated. “Then you can marry before your new subjects, my Queen,” she encouraged, “and they will love you better.” Missandei counseled that her fiery new passion for Jon Snow might warm her in the night, and so much the better if it did; but her feelings might also consume her if she did not keep a level head. Daenerys had responded that fire cannot kill a dragon, but would not meet her eyes.

Her doubts were exacerbated by Daenerys’ seeming lack of concern over the weirwood tree situation. Missandei explained that the very trunk of the tree was planted in a prison, and begged her to reconsider marrying in White Harbor, suggesting Winterfell instead. There, she knew, Jon could at least manage a proper ceremony. Maybe meeting his siblings and seeing him among his people would alleviate her worries. However, her Queen had dismissed her concerns, expressing a wish to be united with her betrothed as soon as possible. Although marriage was still a bit of a foreign concept to her, Missandei thought this was not the proper spirit with which to be entering into a lifelong pact. Maybe, though, she did not fully understand the sunsetters’ customs. Perhaps apprehension before a wedding was normal.

As Dany’s closest friend, she led the procession to the weirwood tree—or branch, as they had not been able to gain access to the Wolf’s Den. The ceremony was being held underneath a branch that protruded over the path to the harbor, instead. Behind her followed Grey Worm and Tyrion, the other “family” Daenerys had supplied. Jon had done worse; he had two sisters and a brother further north, but tonight only the lady knight Brienne and her squire stood with him. Ser Davos, filling in for Jon’s father, would be presiding over the ceremony.

Jon was already waiting next to Ser Davos as the “guests” brought in their torches, looking much the same as always but wearing a new cloak. He seemed twitchy, though he should’ve borne the cold better than anyone else. Perhaps it was nerves. Missandei decided that was a good thing, as it meant he was taking it seriously. They waited in the sharp cold, watching flakes of snow circle down around them as they listened for the sound of their Queen’s footsteps. After a while, the lady knight shifted in her place and began looking about her with impatience, but Jon shot her a pleading look and she desisted. Across from her, Missandei, Grey Worm and Tyrion waited silently, knowing their Queen liked to make an entrance.

The squire saw her first. He nudged his blonde companion and whispered, “Is that her?” They all turned to look. At the dim end of the street, a figure dressed in deep red approached, escorted by a tall man that Missandei knew to be Ser Jorah. Together they walked the length of the street. She saw Ser Jorah whispering to Dany, and Dany laughing at what he said. Was he offering marriage advice, or chiding her for not wearing something warm, or just telling a joke? She didn’t know. She wished hopelessly that Daenerys had chosen to give her love to him, a man intelligent and brave and devoted, instead of this brooding person she barely knew. No matter how good of a match Jon might be, she knew it must be hurting Jorah to give her away to anyone.

As they drew near the wedding party, Daenerys focused all her attention on her husband-to-be. She paid no heed to Brienne’s respectful nod, or Tyrion’s murmur of “You look beautiful, my queen.” She did, however, offer her oldest friend a quick smile, and the happiness Missandei saw in her eyes then gave her a glimmer of hope. She turned to examine Jon Snow’s face and found him gazing at Daenerys as if no one else were present, and the two of them stood alone beneath the weirwood branch. Missandei realized with dim surprise that her eyes were filling with tears. She wiped them on her palm, then grabbed Grey Worm’s free hand and squeezed. He squeezed back, and together they watched as the king and queen became man and wife.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” asked Ser Davos.

“Daenerys of the house Targaryen, a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, comes to beg the blessing of the Gods for her marriage,” answered Ser Jorah, in a clear, ringing voice. “Who comes to claim her?” 

Jon stepped forward. “Jon Snow of the house Stark comes to claim her.” His last words were carried away on a savage wind whistling in from the harbor, rippling Daenerys’ carefully arranged ringlets and dimming all of their torches. Missandei’s fragile acceptance of the marriage turned back to unease at this, yet another ill omen.

Jon waited for the wind to die, then resumed. “Who gives this woman?”

“Ser Jorah of House Mormont, her sworn shield and friend.” He smiled sadly at his beloved and kissed her on the forehead before retreating to stand next to Tyrion.

“Daenerys, do you take this man to be your husband?” Ser Davos asked kindly.

Daenerys smiled so large Missandei thought it might split her face. “I take this man,” she assented. Jon beamed back at her. He offered his hand and together they knelt before the wall of the prison that concealed the face of the weirwood tree from view. Instead of facing the wall, though, they faced each other, warming themselves in the glow of each others’ joy while their guests waited behind them in the cold.

Missandei looked around at the faces of the other guests, wondering if they felt the same gloominess that had washed over her when the wind had interrupted the ceremony. Tyrion and Jorah were still gazing at Daenerys, both no doubt imagining themselves in Jon’s place. Grey Worm’s face was impassive as always. The lady knight seemed bored with the whole event. Only the squire and Ser Davos appeared to be truly happy for the couple. That squire didn’t seem like much, she thought, but she respected Ser Davos, and tried to trust his judgment on this.

Jon rose and helped Daenerys to her feet, her voluminous skirts making a loud rustling noise in the stillness of the dark street. She stood on tiptoes to give her new husband a quick kiss, still beaming at him. Jon rested his forehead tenderly against his Queen’s before they rejoined their guests, and whispered something to her. She grinned in response, looking like a young girl. _I’ve never seen her so happy before_ , Missandei realized. Then, joining hands, they returned to stand before Ser Davos to complete the ceremony.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” he announced. That was her cue. She handed her torch to Grey Worm and brought forth the bridal cloak that had been the source of so much trouble. In their haste to begin the ceremony, it had been draped unceremoniously over a nearby bush, and had collected snow. _Well, my queen is collecting Snow now too,_ she thought grimly. She shook the cloak and handed it off to Jon, who fastened it around his radiant bride’s shoulders. Though the direwolf of Jon’s house was embroidered in exquisite detail on the back of the cloak, Missandei saw with some satisfaction that the clasp bore the dragon sigil of House Targaryen.

As the bride and groom walked away down the street, she realized the wedding must be over. _What a strange affair,_ she puzzled. She shook her head and silently followed Grey Worm back to the inn where they were to have a celebratory meal. Jon’s “relatives” fell in line behind her.

“It was a fine wedding,” the squire proclaimed cheerfully, addressing the group at large. “I’m not looking to have one myself for a long time yet, but it’s always fun to attend them, isn’t it? Much quicker than a southern wedding, not even enough time to get properly cold before the feast,” he chattered. “Though some mulled wine would go down nicely. I wonder if that pretty barmaid from last night remembers me...”

Tyrion scoffed in derision. “If you’re looking for companionship, you won’t find it at the Lazy Eel. Come with me to the Rabbit Hole afterward and we’ll find you a proper Northern girl.”

“You’re both hopeless,” grumbled the lady knight. “It’s already midnight, don’t you want to get some sleep after the day we’ve had?”

“You can come too, and we’ll find you a proper Northern man,” offered Tyrion. She did not dignify that with a response, just marched away to walk with Jorah.

Ser Davos chuckled into his beard. “Can we expect another wedding in our future?” he asked Missandei under the noise of their companions’ chatter, gesturing at her and Grey Worm’s clasped hands. The question took her by surprise—she’d never considered marriage. Her only response was to give an uncomfortable laugh. Grey Worm, however, said “Not yet. Maybe one day?” and winked at her. She suddenly felt warmed through, even as the ceaseless wind blew around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of many weddings! Don't worry, they won't all be as haphazard as this one :)  
> As for Jon's companions, Missandei doesn't know them very well yet. She seems to like Davos in the show, but I think she would find Podrick kind of obnoxious. The jury is still out on Brienne.


	4. The Lord Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Last Hearth prepares for winter.

It was, perhaps, to be expected that the Wall would collapse on Lord Commander Eddison Tollett’s watch. When he first came to the Wall some years ago, as a boy of five-and-ten, he could feel the strength and power radiating from the icy exterior. Inside Castle Black, the weight of years and lifetimes pressed down upon the brothers of the Night’s Watch, suffocating; but the ice also sheltered them from the cold and snow. The Wall had stood for thousands of years and would stand for thousands more. If its magic bindings could withstand the decay of time and the slow rumblings of subterranean events, it could throw off any attack by the wildings and their pets. But even ancient magic was no match for Edd’s statistically defiant bad luck. Once he’d been Lord Commander for a few months, it was as if the Wall simply threw up its icy hands and surrendered, preferring to lie down and accept defeat than to pit itself against whatever cosmic forces were dictating Edd’s life. He supposed he should be glad the event could be blamed on something outside his control, at least.

The journey south from Castle Black had been a hard one, even for his Night’s Watch brothers and the remaining wildling forces, all of them well equipped to face the cold. The walkers were following just behind, and they brought the cold and snow, and... well. He and his men were merely the first blast of cold air signifying a storm front. If they met any smallfolk along the way, would they trust Edd to lead them to safety? The cloak of the Lord Commander, imposing on the Old Bear and even Jon, looked like any other man’s winter gear on Edd. He might have been mistaken for a simple Northern man fleeing south for the winter, if his companions were a wife and babies instead of forty strong fighting men. He did not believe the Last Hearth would be glad to feed forty strong fighting men even if he did look like a Lord Commander, and even if he did not bring wildlings. So there was his work done for him, the Umbers would be unhappy no matter what he said. Why did this always happen to him?

They were yet five leagues from the Last Hearth by his estimate, and afternoon was sloping towards evening when Edd thought he could make out a small contingent of riders on the horizon. Another band of travelers, or something more sinister? The wights had no intelligence to play tricks, he knew that much, but he would not put it past some feisty Northern house to hear rumor of the wildlings and ambush them. It would be his luck—to escape the personification of cold and darkness only to be killed by a band of drunkards. Edd raised his hand in a signal to halt, and his brothers’ horses drew up beside him.

Tormund, who had assumed de facto control of the wildlings, rode up on his left side. “Friend or foe, would you say?” Tormund questioned.

“You think we have friends?” Edd rolled his eyes. “You’re more optimistic than I. No, unless this is provisions from Jon, it won’t be good, and I’ve never known him to think overmuch about food.”

Their garrons stamped and snuffled in the cold. “It will be night soon. Southerners don’t like to travel by night in the best of times. Scared we’ll ambush them if they ride on in the dark.” Tormund grinned at him, though it seemed more like he was baring his teeth. “No, they must want something urgent.”

“Eager to slaughter us quickly and go back to their warm beds,” suggested Edd.

“You really don’t think they could be from Winterfell? Maybe the dragon woman got our raven and sent an armed escort. Or Lady Sansa thought of us and knew we’d need food and warm clothing in this weather. She’s always thinking of things like that.”

Edd tried to ignore the small warmth that bloomed in his chest when he thought of Jon’s pretty sister. She was kind, he knew, and more likely to be concerned with their safety and comfort than Jon. But she would also have her hands full with everything happening at Winterfell. He knew better than to allow himself to hope. “Unlikely. We won’t meet them with swords drawn, in case they are just travelers, but tell your men to stay to the back and be on alert.”

Tormund nodded in understanding and retreated to the end of the column, motioning to the other wildlings to follow him. “We ride south!” Edd shouted to his companions, though it came out a shrill cry barely cutting through the sound of the wind.

With the swirling snow and darkening sky, the mysterious riders were almost on top of Edd and his men by the time he could make out the sigil of a giant on their banner. In contrast to the powerfully built man the banner promised, the envoy that slid down off his horse to greet them was a boy even younger than the very greenest Night’s Watch recruits. He didn’t even have his whiskers yet. The snow piled up nearly to his waist! The children of the north were fierce, he had no doubt about that after meeting Lady Mormont, but Edd thought this child was even younger than she. Shaking his head, Edd dismounted his horse as well in respect.

“Good evening, Lord Commander. My name is Ned Umber, lord of the Last Hearth, and keeper of these lands,” the boy piped up. “My men and I have come to escort you to warmth and safety for the night.”

Edd could hear his brothers murmuring and snickering behind him. _Typical_ , he thought, and his ears colored with embarrassment _._ Edd usually agreed that respect had to be earned, not owed, but this was not the time to press the issue; and he would have to pay the penalty for any disrespect, not his men. He dropped to one knee before little Lord Umber, bringing them briefly face-to-face, and remained there a moment to show respect before rising. “Thank you for your courtesy, m’lord. We will be glad to join you for the night.” He drew in a deep breath, and tried not to focus on how cold and wet his knee had become. “You should know before we accept your hospitality that we bring some men from beyond the Wall. But I trust them, and they have already fought for the realms of men alongside the men of the Watch. I will answer for them, if you will give them shelter as well.”

The Umber men broke out in a storm of muttering and curses that echoed Edd’s brothers’ own dissent. The boy, however, looked nonplussed. He held Edd’s gaze as he replied, “Of course. Lord Snow—I mean, the King in the North—sent word that we should expect _all_ of you.” He glared up at the man to his left, who’d been among the first to start griping. “I don’t know if he told you, but he wants you to shelter with us a day or two before we all head to Winterfell together. My people are almost done packing up the necessities, but we need at least another day to get carts to carry the women and children.”

“Maybe we can help with that.” Edd smiled down at the boy. “We may not bring much food, but we have horses and carts, aye.”

The long procession reached the Last Hearth in full darkness, but the castle was still a buzzing hive of activity. Everyone, from the smallest child to the most aged crone, was still up wrapping, packing, harnessing animals, covering their furniture and tools with cloths in hopes that they would, one day, return. Lord Umber’s own men went off one by one to their own little glowing hearths, until only Ned and two of his guards were left as they entered the great hall. The hall itself was alive with movement, and he could smell from outside that dinner was still laid out. There were aromas there he had not smelled since before he’d been at the Wall, figs and nuts and meats that were not mutton. And the _spices_. Edd closed his eyes and inhaled a great breath of the scented, steamy air issuing from the platters of delicacies. He was on the point of congratulating himself for a job well done, for once, until little Ned led him right past the dinner-laden tables and into a small audience chamber containing three chairs, a rickety table, and—Edd groaned—no plates.

“Lord Umber, we’ve ridden a long way today, and in great haste. I saw that dinner has not yet been cleared away. May we—”

“Oh, of course!” Little Ned blanched. “I forgot to offer our hospitality. Please don’t tell Maester Godwin that I forgot, or I’ll have to write lines. Your men may eat as much as they like. Anything that cannot travel has been cooked, and we’ll all have as much as we can.”

Tormund, following just a few steps behind Edd, stopped short and grinned widely at this welcome news. “As much as we can, eh? We’ll do our best. Where could I find the wine?”

Ned looked at him in confusion. “How would I know? I’m ten!”

“Of course, Ser Ned. I’ll—I’ll find someone.” Tormund retreated back into the great hall, yelling “Dinner’s up, lads!” A cheer rose up around him.

“Ser?” the boy asked him, bewildered.

Edd let out a rare laugh. “I apologize, m’lord, Tormund does not really understand about names and titles. He means no disrespect.” He inclined his head and turned to go, but Ned called him back. “Um, I’m sorry my Lord Commander, but I think we are supposed to discuss the transport to Winterfell first.”

Edd sighed. He was _this close_ to the best meal he’d had in years, and if he hadn’t accepted the mantel of responsibility for the Night’s Watch, he could be tucking in and imbibing with the rest of his men, giddy with the thought of warmth and safety for the night. Glancing wistfully behind him at the now-capering wildlings, Edd moved to take a seat across from the boy lord. “What’ll it be then, m’lord?”

Lord Umber, who had already taken his seat with painfully stiff posture, fidgeted. “Um, we should wait for Maester Godwin. He’s up in the rookery.” Then, as if he thought better of it, he said in a rush, “His Grace Jon Snow wrote me with instructions, and he said he would write to you too. Did you get his letter?”

“I’m afraid not, m’lord. We left the Wall with no notice and have been on the road ever since. If his letter does reach the Wall, there won’t be anyone there to read it.”

“Why did you have to leave so fast?” Ned asked, eyes round with interest. Edd got the uncomfortable feeling that Lord Umber had not been told very much about the threat they were facing. He supposed he would have to educate the boy as well, on top of everything else. He had never been good with children. Why did this happen to him?

He sighed. “Lord Umber. Can I ask what you know about the, ah, enemy?”

“Well, Maester Godwin says that they are dead men and women who don’t know they are supposed to lay in the ground and be quiet. He says their minds are more like animals now than men, and they are hunting us like we do to rabbits. They bring the cold and the snow, and… eternal night,” Ned recited, rolling his eyes upward as he struggled to remember what he’d been taught. “And we all need to work together to stop them, or it will be winter forever. That’s why we’re going to Winterfell, so His Grace can tell us how to fight them.”

This was true in its particulars, but the way Ned rattled off these facts, as if they were something memorized from a book, made Edd uneasy. “Yes, that’s true. But some other things have happened since Jon—er, His Grace—has been in touch with you. You’ve heard about Queen Daenerys, and her dragons?”

“Yes, His Grace talked about her. Does she really have three dragons? Real ones? Have you seen them?” The boy’s face came alive at the mention of dragons, as it hadn’t when he spoke of wights.

He measured his words carefully. It was imperative that the boy understand what they were facing, but he didn’t want to talk down to a lord. This Maester Godwin didn’t sound like much, but he’d provided the boy with a basic education, which was more than Edd could claim. “Yes, she does. Or, she did. One of her dragons was hurt fighting the white walkers. The dragon, er, turned bad, and burned down part of the Wall. That’s why we had to leave. Now the white walkers, and their dragon, have a way to get through the wall. We hoped that we could get here and warn you before they did.”

Edd could tell from his stricken face that the boy lord was starting to grasp the enormity of their problem. “The white walkers are right behind you?? How much time do we have?”

“A bit, I think. We rode here, and they are all on foot. But they don’t have to be fast. They don’t need to rest, or eat, or tend to their women and children. They never stop moving. We need to make sure we stay ahead of them, because they won’t stop. I think we should leave at first light.”

“But there won’t be enough carts for the women and children,” Ned worried, as if he wasn’t a child himself.

“I know. We’ll give you as many as we have, and our horses can help pull them if necessary, but everyone who can will need to walk.”

“The old people aren’t strong enough to walk all that way. Does that mean they will die, Lord Commander?”

“Aye, maybe so. I wish it weren’t like that. But if we stay longer, more people will die anyway.”

Their hushed conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a short, balding man in black. He huffed and puffed his way into the room, wiping his brow theatrically as he took the third seat around the spindly table. _So this must be the fabled Maester Godwin._ In truth he was not impressed. Maester Aemon had set a high standard, too high to judge a normal man against, but even Maester Helliweg at Runestone carried a sort of dignified air about him—or had, when Edd was young. This man had more of an air of rum about him, if the smell was anything to judge by. In a nod to tradition, a chain of four or five metal links dangled from his pocket. It didn’t look long enough to clasp around his neck.

However, Lord Umber leapt to attention as his Maester entered the room. “May I introduce you to Lord Commander Tollett?” he squeaked. “The Night’s Watch arrived just a moment ago, they got here a little faster than you expected.”

“Yes, yes, I gathered they had come. Some large fellow in furs just accosted me, asking about wine.” The maester extended his hand and Edd shook it. As Ned sat again, he finally got a look at the man’s face. _He might be even uglier than me,_ he thought. He had the eyes of a drunk, puffy and shot through with red veins, and they popped from his skull as if trying to flee to safety. Quite beyond that, it was obvious even from the few moments they’d spent together that he had a nasty habit of sucking his lips when he thought. He was doing it now, as Ned recapped everything they had spoken of while he toiled in the rookery (or the brewery.)

When Lord Umber was through, the maester set upon him with questions while Edd mentally calculated how much aid they could offer. Several carts had been taken from the Wall, if only to prevent the wights from figuring out how to use them, and each could probably fit a small family if they packed in and brought only the clothes on their backs. Possibly forty or fifty more people could be saved. He’d seen half that many people just in the hall, though. It was a grim choice this child had to make, and Edd didn’t envy him.

“If there’s really a dead dragon coming, I don’t think we should stay here and wait for it,” the boy was saying, staring at his hands and twisting his fingers together. “The old folks won’t want to walk, but maybe they will understand if we explain...”

“Aye,” Maester Godwin agreed. “Northmen are a hearty breed, as sturdy as my own people. Many and more of them might make it, if we take our time. But, my lord, you must prepare yourself for the possibility that the oldest and boldest men may ‘go hunting’ on the way.” They all nodded, knowing that such men would never be seen again—in life, anyway. “We’ll finish packing tonight and set out when it’s light enough to travel. What’s left of this feast can be eaten on the road. Lord Commander, I trust your men can make do with a few hours’ rest?”

He nodded. “A few hours’ rest and a bit of meat and mead, and they’ll be ready.”

“That’s decided, then.” Maester Godwin rose and pushed in his chair, mopping his brow again as he did so. How could one man sweat so much when it was this cold? “Now, I think we should avail ourselves of this nice meal. Lord Umber is still a growing boy—and you could do with some fattening yourself, Lord Commander.”

Over Edd’s protests, they were all three seated together at the high table. He’d never sat at a high table before. As a lad he’d visited Grey Glen once or twice, but his branch of the Tolletts was relegated to the back of the hall with the blacksmith and his family. Of course back then, “the Last Hearth” was only a place out of one of the septon’s history books. The boy he was then couldn’t have guessed he’d sup there one day, and take counsel with the Lord and his maester.

The man he had become was just as confounded by the cutlery as little Edd would have been. Why had he been given three forks? And why did they all look different? The smallest one was so tiny he could comb his moustache with it, if he was so inclined. Jon or Sam would know what to do with it, he reckoned. One of them should be here instead of him. His own instinct told him to slide the tiny fork into his pocket, and save it to poke Tormund with. It might add a spot of humor to tomorrow’s march. If the fork weren’t so shiny and fine, he might’ve done.

A flock of serving girls bustled over, bearing platters of chicken legs, roast carrots in honey, rolls warm from the oven, tureens of root soup and beef-and-barley stew, buttered beans, cabbage rolls seasoned with spices and lime. It was more than he could eat in a week of meals. Sensible Ned contented himself with a pile of bacon and plain boiled potatoes. “Vegetables,” Maester Godwin prompted, and Ned, scowling, reached for a bowl of spinach and peas. When their lord finished serving himself, he and the Maester scrambled to fill their plates. In addition to the chicken and beans, he helped himself to a ladelful of stew containing some bright, crunchy vegetables he suspected might be Dornish peppers. They were really quite shocking, he considered, as he tried to quench the resulting fire in his mouth with ale. The ale did not put the fire out, but spread a pleasant, warm feeling to his limbs. His mouth did not feel so bad after that.

Some time after, as the men were moving from the “eating” portion of the evening to the “drinking,” Ned retired to bed. It was custom to stand when your lord stood, but Lord Umber was so short that no one realized he had risen, and the boy himself didn’t seem concerned that the protocol went unobserved. “’Night,” he mumbled, sounding half-asleep already, and a massive yawn swallowed his face. He shook Edd’s hand and hugged Maester Godwin, and tottered down the hall to the door into the yard. Few took notice.

“Your people don’t seem very respectful,” Edd couldn’t help but say as he took another swig of ale. “It’s a sad day when a lord leaves a feast, and his men don’t even offer a toast.”

“Aye, they still expect the Greatjon,” said Maester Godwin amicably, and sucked his lips. “He had a way about him—a presence, you could say. And his son, and his uncles. Young Eddard has much to live up to, but he’ll get there.”

It took a moment to realize the maester meant Ned, and not Jon’s late father. Maybe he should put the ale down. “Eddard? After Lord Stark?”

“Aye,” he said again. “The Smalljon admired him so. He had an idea to wed the boy to Arya, once, but…” They both knew it would be pointless to speculate. Together they returned to their ale, Edd wondering when the maester would leave so he could sit among his men.

“So,” he ventured after a brief silence. “Dornish peppers.” _Mother above, Edd, you sound like a simpleton._

But the Maester laughed. “Surprised you, did they? Well, you suffered them better than most. If you kept at it I think you’d develop a taste for them. There’s a sweetness to a good pepper, a freshness… once your tongue stops burning!”

“Doesn’t look like Lord Umber cares for them much.” The boy had avoided the stew with the kind of care one usually reserved for poisonous snakes.

The maester laughed again. “No, not yet. But he kindly stocks them for me. I love spice, reminds me of being young.”

“Were you born in Dorne, maester?” What a concept, to leave the sunny shores of Dorne for this frozen waste.

“Near Blackmont. Have you ever been?”

Edd almost snorted at that. “No, never been south. I like your wine, though.”

“A man of taste, I see.” The maester settled down with another bowl with obvious relish. “And where do _you_ call home?” he asked around a mouthful of stew.

“Gulltown,” Edd said shortly, though he’d lived twice as many years at the Wall.

The maester’s eyes popped a bit more at that—or perhaps he’d just bitten into a particularly spicy pepper. “Good fishing there,” he said at last.

Edd nodded. “There is. I miss it.”

“Ever have a chance to fish on the Long Lake?”

He suppressed a long sigh that would’ve given vent to his mounting frustration. “The Watch doesn’t travel much below the Gift,” he said through gritted teeth. “Sometimes we’ll fish in the Haunted Forest, when it’s warm.”

“Oh yes, there’s a small lake near Whitetree, is there not?”

That made him sit up. “Have _you_ been beyond the Wall, maester?”

He shrugged and cracked open a nut—it must be time for the dessert course. “I like to look at maps,” he said simply. “No bit of knowledge is ever wasted. Of late I have been teaching young Lord Umber the histories of the ice river clans, such that is known south of the Wall. Your Maester Aemon used to write with information, sometimes, when he was alive…” A walnut disappeared down his gullet.

Edd was saved from more stilted conversation when an Umber man took issue with a Thenn, and the two rolled across a tabletop in a whirl of kicking and punching. When they upset a cask of ale, northmen and Free Folk alike joined the fight, bellowing at the loss of good drink. _It’s well that we won’t need the Hall tomorrow,_ he thought as he returned to his ale.

When the fight had been broken up, and injuries tended to, and the remaining drink distributed, the wildlings gathered around the fire for a song. Edd took it as a sign to head to bed. He probably could’ve wrangled a room in the castle, but he knew he would sleep better among his snoring and kicking and farting men than he would under a lord’s roof. The noise and smells were almost comforting. As he trudged through the packed snow to their hastily erected shelter, his thoughts turned with predictable gloom to all the hardships they were sure to encounter on the morrow. The day promised to be full of crying babies, and complaining women, and cold, and wind, and damp. A childish turf war between each faction that was heading south was also in the forecast. He brushed aside the tent flaps and entered the frosty tent. Maybe the wights would catch up to them, that would break up the day a bit. Sighing, Edd lay down on his cot, the sole luxury awarded to him by his station. Everyone else was sleeping on the ground. Hell, the ground might be more comfortable. He kicked off his boots, neglecting to remove any of his other clothes, and burrowed under the blankets.

But! Here was a pleasant surprise. Some kind soul had brought a hot brick wrapped in flannel, and placed it under his blankets. Edd smiled as he wiggled his now-warm toes—the first time they’d thawed out all day. It reminded him to count his blessings, a ritual he tried to observe every night before he went to sleep. Sam, concerned about his morose outlook, had recommended the exercise to calm him before bed. He didn’t feel that it helped his mood at all, but at least Sam wouldn’t be cross, if they ever saw each other again. He was warm, and others were not. He had a belly full of chicken and bread and ale, and others did not. He had good friends. And he’d tried Dornish food for the first time today, that was something. Sleep came quickly. He dreamed of warm sun on grass, and spicy peppers, and soft red hair.

_Something is wrong._

Edd’s eyes flew open, his mind switching from “drowsy” to “alert” in a split second. There was shouting outside his tent. Shouting, and the sound of running feet. The smell of smoke. He fumbled for his boots, knocking over a washstand that had been propped up next to the cot in his haste. His damned fingers, they were too cold and stiff to untie the laces! With a panicked moan, he tried to shove his feet into the unwilling boots, but they would go in no further than the narrow area above the ankle. He continued to tug uselessly at the opening of the boots as the sound of running drew closer. Now he could hear women’s shrieks among the hoarse shouting. His tent hangings rippled as a horse and rider rushed past no more than an arm’s length from him. He could smell the horse’s sweat, and its fear. Something wooden clacked by noisily. A child cried for its mother. The smoke began to choke him.

Edd finally won the battle with his laces, but now his sword would not reveal itself in the dim tent. He was sure it had been next to his bed when he’d gone to sleep, right next to the washstand! But it wasn’t there anymore, and everything on the floor was a ruffle of dark shapes. Edd knelt and felt around, trying not to make any noise that might signal someone was inside the tent. His fingers brushed the puddle of icy water that spread after his washbasin tipped. The cold water felt almost soothing to his frozen fingers, which he knew was bad. Everything in his being screamed at him to get up and run, to leave the sword, to face whatever was outside with his own bare hands. Only duty made him stay behind and search for his weapon. A Lord Commander could not go unarmed into the night.

As Edd was scrabbling on the floor, there came a sudden bloom of heat and stillness. A few seconds of quiet. Then the screams and rush began anew, intensified after the short lapse. It felt like a warning, and it was this more than anything else that told Edd it was time, at last, to go. He made a brief stab at dignity by grabbing the flannel-wrapped brick that had warmed his toes to use as a weapon, and headed out into the maelstrom.

Hell was outside. Every structure and creature to his right was wreathed in pale blue flame, fire burning so hot that the air shimmered and rippled like a stream. To his left was a funnel of swirling snow and frozen ash, stretching down the path of his men’s camp until it met open field, and darkness. The people rushing wildly into the dark maw of the wilderness were smallfolk and Night’s Watchmen and the free folk alike, united at last in their humanity as they fled the terrible smoking specter that pursued them.

From high above came an animalistic scream that Edd had heard only once before. He knew what that cry meant. He looked in vain for a horse that would carry him away from the beast that circled the camp from the clouds above, unwilling to leave the heat and light of the burning camp on foot. He had almost given up hope when he heard a piercing whinny cut through the cacophony around him. A horse! Not far away, maybe twenty paces. Edd groped along the path for the horse, blinded by the billowing smoke. He tried to whistle for it but only succeeded on his third attempt, his first two blunted by the ash gathering on his lips. Another terrified whinny sounded, closer this time. He thought he could make out a slight darkening in the distance… not even a shadow, just a darker-colored patch in the silvery blue haze surrounding him. The darkening clarified into a horse-shaped silhouette as he approached. A horse, and a much smaller—human—form.

“Help!!” the small figure yelped as he drew near. “Help me! Your lord commands you!” Gods, surely not—this could not be—Ned?? Had his people left him behind? Edd stumbled the last few steps to the boy he was now sure was Lord Umber, and scooped him into a tight hug.

“Lord Umber, it’s me, Edd Toll—the Lord Commander!” He hunched over and shouted into the boy’s ear. “Are you hurt? Where are your men?”

“They left me!!” the boy sobbed into his shoulder. “When the dragon came they ran away and left me! The smallfolk too! Maester Godwin came to get me, but he—he—” The boy’s words dissolved into wails as he clung to Edd.

Edd tried to pat the boy’s back with one hand while searching for the horse’s reins with the other. His left hand traced the reins and discovered that the horse was still tethered to a post, the only reason it had not bolted. _If I can free the horse, we can still escape!,_ he registered with a sudden rush of hope. The boy was not large, and Edd was slightly built himself—they could ride together. “We both need to mount the horse, and then I’ll untie it!” he yelled. “Can you get up yourself or do you need a hand?”

The boy’s great gasping sobs continued, but he tried to respond. “I—need—help! I—can’t—get—up—myself—I’m—too—short!”

“I’m going to make a brace with my hands! Step into it and I’ll boost you up!” Edd shouted. His instructions were interrupted by another shrill dragon cry, but he thought the boy understood. He knelt and laced his fingers together in imitation of a stirrup, the hand that had touched the water in his tent already going dull and dead. In a moment he felt the boy lord’s small foot nudging for entrance between his open palms. With a grunt, he boosted the child up and felt his load lighten as Lord Umber swung his other leg over the horse. Edd stood and clambered onto the horse’s back himself. Once seated, he laced his left arm around the waist of the boy in front of him, and bent down to yell “Do you have a sword or a knife to cut the tether?” into the boy’s ear.

Instead of feeling the handle of a blade pressed into his palm, as he expected, Edd registered the small body before him stretching forward, and a sudden lunge, then they were off. The boy had cut the tether himself between his tears and trembles. Both of them held on tight as the frenzied horse stumbled away from its post, then galloped onto the ominous dark prairie. As they sped away from the Last Hearth, Edd wished he had a sword.

The beast once known as Viserion swooped down on its prey. The dragon fed lazily on burning flesh, unseen by the pop-eyed corpse dressed in black robes and metal chains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to finally release this chapter--Edd's my favorite, so fun to write. I just love him.  
> The bit in the first paragraph, "The Wall had stood for thousands of years and would stand for thousands more," is my own little tribute to The Haunting of Hill House. A great book, if you haven't read it, and an OK show.  
> Btw I don't actually think poor Edd is ugly, but I think HE would think that, especially when compared to his hunky friends like Jon and Grenn. But maybe someone will see some potential in him, and he'll lighten up ;)  
> Do you think Tormund would say "lads"? I'm of two minds about it.


	5. The Hand of the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei holds court in King's Landing, and hears some interesting petitions. Qyburn experiments.

Darkness had fallen over King’s Landing, and Qyburn was beginning his work.

After the meeting in the Dragonpit, the true queen requested that he start renewing their cache of wildfire in the event that the Targaryen woman lost her fight and the wights came south. The task had been simple enough to contract to the Alchemist’s Guild, and he was glad of it. His time was better spent overseeing the construction of the scorpions, raising money to pay the Golden Company, and his particular projects. Yes, he was glad enough to serve Queen Cersei; but this, the work he did at night in his dungeons, was his true calling. If his reasoning was correct—and he thought it was—he was on the verge of a major breakthrough. The previous work he had conducted on rats and chickens had gone just as expected, cats had followed in the same fashion, and he was now ready to monitor his experiment’s effects on more advanced beings.

He had just removed a tiny mortar and pestle from his shelf to crush the dark tablets—they would be more palatable when mixed with food or drink, he thought—when a knock came at his door. Considering there were only two people (in the loosest meaning of the word) that knew the location of his private workroom, he thought he knew what this was about.

Wiping his hands on his robes, he strode rapidly to the door, not waiting to keep his Queen waiting. Instead, though, his creation Ser Robert Strong awaited him as he threw back the door. “Oh, it’s you,” he huffed as he stood in the doorway. “What is it this time?”

Ser Strong said nothing, as was his wont, merely pointed in the direction of the stairs. He supposed that meant the Queen had summoned him. “Very well,” he murmured, “I’ll just be a moment.” He locked up—it would _not_ do to have anyone snooping around—lit a torch, and dashed past Ser Strong up the stairs. The behemoth followed him, a silent menace.

The stairs wound up and up through the dungeons, and Qyburn was struggling for breath before he’d gained two levels. A simple manse on the river, with easy inclines and a shaded terrace for afternoon naps, was more suitable for a man his age than the Tower of the Hand with its endless steps. Oft as not, he slept in his workroom rather than walk all that way. Still, the magnificence of the palace never failed to astonish him. From the tallest towers, he could look out over all of King’s Landing, he could feel the cold breeze coming in from the North, he could smell the sea. From the lowest dungeon, he could conduct his most controversial experiments without interference. Quite apart from that, there was ready access to the royal treasury and the bones of dragons (which were surpassingly magical.) And the blood of kings, or queens, was never far away. Yes, the Red Keep suited him very much.

Queen Cersei could often be found in Maegor’s Holdfast, but on this night, Ser Strong prevented him from leaving the squat, round building where his dungeons were housed with a sharp yank on his arm. Qyburn winced; that arm could’ve been dislocated. “Gentler next time,” he lectured Ser Strong. “Where is our Queen tonight, if not in the Holdfast?”

The giant cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Upstairs?” Qyburn asked, and was rewarded with a nod. _Whatever is she doing up there?_ he thought, sighing deeply at the prospect of more stairs. They had no highborn prisoners to speak of at the moment, and no cause for the queen to mingle with them if they did; and he’d never known Cersei to even speak to the Lord Confessor, let alone visit him at home. This was most unorthodox. He toiled upwards, Ser Strong following at a respectful distance. _Thank the gods for small mercies._

He found the queen at the entrance to the Traitor’s Walk, an outdoor walkway that was little used even when no heads graced its spikes. He couldn’t imagine why his Queen would be out there alone on a cold night. Her pregnancy was not far enough advanced that she would be suffering in the heat of a confined room. Unless… had one of the dragon queen’s retinue been captured? He hurried toward the doorway, suddenly suffused with glee at the prospect of a hostage. “Stay back,” he ordered Ser Strong, and braved the winter storm to join his Queen.

She was standing at the edge looking out, arms spread, palms resting on the low wall that enclosed the walkway. Snowflakes nestled in her golden hair and alighted on her dark-clad shoulders, dissolving into nothingness as they met the warmth of her body. Illuminated by the yellow light of the torches below, she looked the very image of the great and terrible queens Qyburn had read about in his long-ago youth. It was an honor to serve such a woman.

The fragile spell was broken as she turned her head to look at him. “Lord Qyburn,” she reprimanded, “I’ve been waiting for some time.”

“Your protector is not always adept at giving directions, Your Grace.”

“Neither is anyone else in my service.” Her right hand fluttered over the flat surface of the wall, searching for the glass of wine she usually carried at all times, ceasing only during her pregnancy. Noticing him noticing her, she desisted, her hand fluttering nervous into the folds of her gown. “Which is why I have called you here. Do you know what this walkway is called, Lord Qyburn?”

He did, but it would be rude to show her up. “I’m not certain, Your Grace.”

“This is the Traitor’s Walk,” she declared, caressing one of the spikes with her free hand. “When someone betrays the trust of their king or queen, their head decorates a spike on these very walls. Often the heads of their co-conspirators or household join them. Do you follow?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“This very spike once held the head of Ned Stark,” she said softly. “At the time I thought it was my greatest triumph. It seems another life, now.” She let go of Lord Stark’s final resting place and began strolling along the walk, Qyburn in her wake.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Since then, the walls have remained… unadorned. Once I had this one picked out specially for Margaery Tyrell,” she said, gesturing at the spike they were passing, “but there wasn’t enough of her left to impale. That one was to wear the head of Lady Olenna.”

“Fitting rewards for both of them, Your Grace.”

“I agree.” She came to the end of the walkway. “Do you know who this one is for?”

“The dragon queen, if I might hazard a guess.” His queen did not like anyone to refer to Daenerys Targaryen by her given name.

“Right in one.” Cersei patted it fondly. “But you must have noticed all these other empty spikes too. A Queen must have a court.”

“Your brother perhaps?” Qyburn offered. “Lord Varys?”

“I doubt he’ll allow himself to be captured, but yes, if possible. Lord Varys, Jon Snow, Tyrion, my brother.” She pointed at the spike that at one point was destined for Margaery Tyrell. “That one’s for the Lady Sansa now. I never liked her.” Cersei glared at that one for a long time, as if lost in thought.

“But how do we accomplish this, my Queen?” asked Qyburn gently, hoping to bring her back to the conversation.

“That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about.” She faced him at last. “Ser Robert Strong. Do you feel confident that you can re-create his strength and obedience in another, if given another prisoner?”

“Well, strength will vary based on the size and constitution of the subject,” he explained. “But otherwise, yes. The procedure performed on Ser Strong is replicable with another. They would be totally obedient to your commands, and although I cannot increase their strength beyond what it was in life, they _would_ be immune to pain and illness.”

“And Ser Strong understands simple commands, yes? If asked to, say, fetch me an apple from the kitchen, he’d be able to do it?”

“Of course, he fetched me from the dungeon just now.”

“What if I asked him to fetch me an apple from Casterly Rock? Would he be able to do that?” Cersei asked.

“As a man of the Westerlands, he would know the way... yes, my queen, I believe he could.”

“And if, for example, I asked him to fetch me a person, from Winterfell…”

At last they came to the heart of the matter. “He could do it. If he recognized the person, and knew the way.”

His Queen smiled. “Excellent. You may return to your work for now, Lord Qyburn.”

With the imminent prospect of a fresh subject, Qyburn thrust aside the materials he’d been working with before Ser Strong’s arrival and set about locating his notes from the Clegane project. He’d been eager to repeat that one for some time, there simply hadn’t been an appropriate occasion, and now he was positively itching to get started. Queen Cersei hadn’t told him what to expect from his subject, so better to be prepared for every eventuality. A difference in age, height, weight, or gender could seriously affect his calculations.

He worked through the night, stopping only when the noise of the prisoners waking around him became too distracting. They were housed on a separate level when they weren’t needed for one of Qyburn’s projects, but screams echoed so horribly down in the dungeon where everything was made of stone. More than once he’d considered trying to soundproof it, at least the chamber where he did his note-taking and drafting, but there was always some other matter of importance to attend to instead. Maybe he’d find time when the war was over.

Qyburn would’ve enjoyed a good long sleep then—he _was_ past the age when men stopped working a full day—but Cersei would be wroth if he did not at least check in at the throne room before going to his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Irritated by his irregular schedule, his Queen had demanded shortly after he became Hand that he attend all audiences in the Great Hall, even when she herself was presiding over the morning’s petitions, which she did less often than Tommen but rather more often than Robert. “To keep you busy,” she had said, although he suspected she just wanted the company. His Queen had been so despondent since her brother left, and with her children gone. There were the ubiquitous hangers-on at court, of course, but she barely tolerated the presence of anyone other than himself and Ser Strong. He wished Euron Greyjoy would come back to keep her company. And if he brought Qyburn some new subjects… so much the better.

There were only a handful of petitioners left when he entered the throne room. He groaned at the presence of two familiar lords from the Reach, Myles Pommingham and Sylas Varner, who had opposing temperaments as well as adjoining lands. As a result, they spent most of their tenures as lords at each other’s throats. Until the past year they had taken their disputes to Mace Tyrell, who for some reason had allowed them to think their petty squabbles worthy of his time; but until Cersei appointed another Lord Paramount, they would haunt the throne room. Most recently they were arguing about who should have the hand of young Shellia Orme, Lord Pommingham’s son or Lord Varner’s nephew. Between them was Ser Justin Massey, who he almost didn’t recognize—the man had wisely covered his Targaryen-esque blond hair with a hood to meet with the Queen. Then there was the usual rabble of commoners, someone who looked like a ship’s captain, and a small knot of frightened-looking people that appeared to belong to the minor nobility, up to visit the Capital from the Riverlands or the Vale.

He slid in next to the amusing Ser Massey to wait out the Queen’s current petitioner; a short, wiry man with dirty blond hair, obviously lowborn. Probably another poor Lannister relation begging for a favor, there had been quite a few of those of late. “What did I miss?” he whispered to the knight.

“Sssh,” he was scolded, and there was no more conversation. Qyburn wrinkled his nose. He didn’t remember Ser Justin being so fussy in the past. Wait, was that Ser Justin he was remembering, or his father?

The man before the Iron Throne was still holding forth. “…then I says, what would a Meereenese nobleman want with weirwood trees? And this bitch, she tells me he wants to plant them outside the city and raise them for timber!” He scoffed. “As if I were as stupid as all that. So I just left her alone, and she skipped off, thinking she had me fooled. But I wasn’t.” He tapped his head importantly. “I thought my Queen might want to know foreigners were about, asking about them trees.”

His Queen forced a grim smile, but the petitioner saw only her pretty face—he was still staring at her in hopeful expectancy. “You were right, your Queen does want to know. But tell me, why did you assume this was of interest to me?”

“Well I’ve not told you the rest. When I went to the inn the next day, I heard from the tailor that there was some foreign woman in town buying presents for the Starks. ‘Twas the very same woman I talked to, or one of her companions, make no mistake.”

“Perhaps… My Hand, a word?” She crooked her finger at Qyburn; most unfortunately, she had noted his late entrance. He hurried to her side with all the speed left to him at his age. Not enough.

“You know what I think, Your Grace?” The petitioner did not bother to wait, but lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think that the Starks are trying to secure support from Slaver’s Bay. That Targaryen tart has ties there, I know that for a fact, and she’s been helping them Starks. Maybe Hizdahr zo Loraq is financing their cause, or summat.”

The man fell silent at the snap of Cersei’s fingers. A tense silence fell as they all waited on him, the Hand of the Queen, to reach the foot of the Iron Throne. He could feel the Court’s eyes on him as he moved. Distasteful; bad enough to be shamed in front of the lords, much less the smallfolk. “That may be,” Cersei allowed at last, though Qyburn could tell from the tone of her voice that she thought little of this theory. “I don’t know if your information will be of use yet, but I will reward you for your loyalty. What is your occupation?”

“I’m but a humble sailor, Your Grace.”

“Qyburn, send this man off with a purse of gold,” she ordered as soon as he reached the foot of the throne, as much for the pleasure of seeing him scamper as for rewarding the informant. “And get his contact details.” She smiled benevolently at the man. “If you continue to serve me in good faith, and your information comes to any great use, I’ll have you knighted.”

“My Queen!” The dirty little man fell to his knees in supplication, astonished at his great fortune. He had expected the purse, but no more. “I’ll serve you all of my days.” He made a twitchy movement towards the throne, as if to ascend and kiss her feet, but saw the swords and thought better of it. “Is there anything else you would have me do, Your Grace?” he asked, eyes downcast.

“Go back to work, and keep your ears open. What is your next port of call?”

“Planky Town, your Grace.”

“That suits me. Go, then, and remember your duty to your Queen.”

“Thank you, thank you Your Grace. You are as generous as you are beautiful.” A hollow compliment, but Cersei enjoyed it all the same. The man scurried out before she could take back her offer.

Cersei called for a short recess then and deigned to descend the throne to speak to him. Once he’d toured the Great Hall to sort the matter of the golden purse, of course. “A high reward for a bit of gossip, my Queen,” lectured Qyburn, wheezing, when they met. There were few people in the world who could freely question her, and he fancied he had earned that right for himself. He meant no offense, only intending to guide her as a Hand should.

“A low price to pay for inside information on the maritime events of the Seven Kingdoms, and Essos,” she countered. “And he’s too stupid to realize what he’s got, best fill his head with gold and not allow him to ponder it. I do not think he is aware of what he’s told me.”

“Which is? I missed the better part of the conversation.”

“Rise at a decent hour next time, and you won’t miss anything.” Smirking, she patted his hand. “But you are forgiven. That cretin told me that he encountered a dark-skinned foreign woman in White Harbor, enquiring about weirwood trees. Although she called them ‘heart trees.’”

“You think this is the same woman the Targaryen had with her at the Dragonpit.”

“I’m certain of it. And did you catch the last part, about gifts for the Starks?”

“Well, that doesn’t seem strange to me, Your Grace, if the dragon queen wants to charm Jon Snow’s sisters.”

“But the information came from a _tailor_. Whatever might he be making especially for a Stark?” She grinned, enjoying his bewilderment.

“A… banner, perhaps?” He knew nothing of clothes.

“Or a wedding cloak.” Cersei took his arm. “Jon Snow is marrying the dragon queen.”

They stood in silence for a moment, Qyburn processing this theory while Cersei watched lords Pommingham and Varner scrap with each other. After a moment, he said “Does this really put us in a different position, Your Grace? The two of them are already allied. They may produce dragonspawn now, but with another little Lannister on the way…” He eyed her belly fondly. “You are more than a match for her.”

“No, it does not alter our position much,” she agreed, still surveying the blustering men. “But it is interesting that she has lowered herself to marry the bastard son of a crippled kingdom when there are eligible lords of noble birth. Robin Arryn is available, with a defensible castle, and is quite handsome from what I hear. And her people have always liked to ally themselves with the Dornish.”

“A love match, perhaps,” he suggested, raising this voice. The smallfolk had begun to take interest in the lords’ quibble and were raising their own din. “You know what we think about those.”

“Pure indulgence,” she declared. “Daenerys is weak. And that is useful to us, if nothing else is.”

“Talking of marriages,” he began, sinking down to sit on the first step of the throne. At the last moment he glanced at the Queen, eyeing her with mute appeal—she still liked him to _ask_ to sit the Iron Throne, though she often sent him to hear petitions in her absence. She nodded, and he lowered himself the rest of the way, cursing his aching joints. “Have you heard from your intended since he left to raise the Golden Company?”

Cersei frowned. “No, I have not.”

He nodded knowingly. “You’re still a woman, My Queen, for all your strength and power. Of course your woman’s heart longs for your betrothed.”

His Queen eyed him with disgust. “Don’t speak of my ‘woman’s heart’ ever again or I’ll have _your_ heart on a spike.”

That might frighten another man, but he knew it for mere banter. “I thought Your Grace was fond of the Lord of Pyke.”

“He is amusing. And not bad to look at.” She paused, looking about her, and leaned in, reassured that the petitioners were busy with the lords’ quarrel, which threatened to escalate to fisticuffs. “Later,” she whispered.

Cersei heard out both Pommingham and Varner, and afterwards, reasoned that neither of their kin should wed Shellia Orme, and awarded her hand to Harald Clifton instead. Both men went away in high dudgeon, perhaps the first time they had ever agreed on anything. The smallfolk brought forward the usual problems, boundary disputes and petty thievery and the like, until his eyelids threatened to close for good. She saved the family for last.

“Who comes before the Queen?” he murmured, jerking to attention at her hissing. He prayed their audience woud be short.

“Ser Harys Haigh, my lord Hand.”

He suppressed a groan; Sers could be so tedious. “And what is your request, Ser?”

“No request, my lord Hand.” Thank the Seven. “I’ve come to present my, ah, my grandmother, Lady Catelyn Frey. To take up her position as lady-in-waiting, if it please her Grace.”

Cersei frowned down from her high seat. “I’m not expecting anyone. And when I request a lady-in-waiting, I do mean a _lady_ , not a crone.”

“Please, my queen,” piped up a shy voice. “You wrote to my late husband Lord Frey a few moons back, to request one of his daughters or granddaughters to serve you. He elected to send me in their stead.” Instead of the wizened old woman he expected, a fresh young girl barely past the first blush of maidenhood slipped out from behind Ser Harys. The poor thing was quaking in her boots, so frightened was she to be in the queen’s presence. That one would have to grow some backbone to wait on Cersei… or perhaps not. His queen preferred her companions servile.

“Did he?” came the acid reply. “I’ve not had word. Lord Qyburn, is there some correspondence from the late Lord Frey that escaped my notice?”

“I have it here,” squeaked the girl, waving a scrap of parchment. “’Twas one of the last things he ever signed.”

Cersei motioned for him to take the paper. He snatched it out of the girl’s hand and ripped it open. “I, Lord Walder of House Frey, bid you Queen Cersei, first of her name, to take my ninth wife Kitty as a lady-in-waiting…” “the creature is barren…” “want her out of my house…” And so on and so forth. He noticed the missive was signed with a crude scrawl rather different than the neat printing of the text, but Lord Walder _was_ past ninety at his death. His own handwriting had also deteriorated of late. The seal, at least, was authentic—two towers on blue wax.

“How did you come into possession of this, my lady?” he asked, frowning in suspicion. “Why wasn’t this sent to the Red Keep at once?”

“It was in the maester’s keeping when my husband passed, my lord Hand,” said the girl, trembling with nerves. “The maester thought it best that I come here to carry out his last wishes. My stepdaughter’s family kindly agreed to escort me. I don’t want to anger his shade, my lord.”

Who would? Qyburn knew there was no consciousness after death, but such a young girl _would_ be superstitious, and no one would choose to be haunted by Lord Walder Frey’s ghost. “My queen?” he muttered, casting his voice at Cersei’s feet. “What say you?”

“Tell me of House Haigh,” she hissed back down at him. “Not a prestigious family, I would think?”

“Not if they’ve naught better to do than escort this girl to King’s Landing.”

“Perfect.” Then, in a carrying voice, “I don’t make it a habit to take unmarried girls into my service, Lady Frey.”

Ser Justin Massey coughed, no doubt to suggest himself as a possible match.

“That’s just as well, because I’ve married again,” the girl simpered, blushing. “Ser Harys’ brother Alyn asked for my hand, and I agreed.” The gangly, freckled boy at her side beamed; that must be Alyn. He looked quite proud of himself. The rest of the family—Ser Harys, a bold dark woman who must be his wife, and a taller, rounder version of Ser Harys—only muttered amongst themselves, no doubt shamed by their youngest son wedding his step-grandmother.

The queen thought it over. The girl was meek enough, and her new husband too inconsequential to be a hindrance. He saw her eyes passing over the Haigh family’s garb (presentable but plain) and countenance (thin and weedy, in need of a good meal or two). Poor landed knights, probably. The queen need only send a discreet favor or two their way, and they could throw a wrench into the recently liberated Edmure Tully’s reconstruction efforts, if necessary.

Cersei must have shared his sentiments. “Very well, Lady Catelyn.” Her lip curled as she pronounced the lady’s name. “Report to me on the morrow. And not a moment after sunrise, mind. I’d be pleased to take you in my service.”

There were hugs and happy chatter all around; two of the smallfolk cheered the new couple and one offered Kitty flowers. Even Lord Massey offered his congratulations. Only Ser Harys looked troubled. _Best to find occupation for that one, and fast,_ he thought.

Later, when they were alone, Qyburn offered his own counsel. “The new girl seems a sweet creature, your Grace. An excellent choice.”

“Sweet and stupid.” In the absence of wine, Cersei had turned to rare teas to occupy her hands. Of late she favored a flowery variety from Yi Ti, and a delicate cup of the brew never left her hand in the afternoons. Expensive, though, and suspect, as with anything that grew beyond the Jade Sea. His robe was splashed with it as she gestured, and he wiped it from his sleeve, wincing. He made a mental note to urge her to switch to something more fortifying, such as spiced milk sweetened with cocoa from the Summer Isles.

“Fine qualities in a woman, your Grace,” he agreed. “Two ladies-in-waiting are traditional, though; your mother shared her duties with Loreza Martell. May I suggest you find another? A woman from the Reach would be ideal; perhaps a Hightower…”

The tea sloshed in her cup again. “Euron has offered me one of his distant cousins, a Lady Stonetree of some description.”

That suggestion was even less pleasant than his sodden robes. An ironborn lady-in-waiting would not be popular. “When should we expect her?”

“I don’t know.” Cersei frowned. “Letters from Euron have been… unhelpful.”

Slowly, they ascended the stairs to Maegor’s Holdfast, where Cersei would remove her heavy trappings of office and change into something less burdensome. With luck, she would forget about him after that. As they went, she explained that Euron offered no explanation for his lengthy absence, and said no word about when he planned to return. His mention of Lady Stonetree was also worrisome, to her mind; she was concerned the lady was overfamiliar with her betrothed.

“Even if that is so, your Grace, he’d hardly look at her with you awaiting him. What does a woman from that rabble of rocks have to compare to you, the Light of the West?” He lifted the crown from her brow, which had grown damp with sweat under its weight.

“It’s what she doesn’t have.” Cersei fiddled with her cuffs. “Euron does not yet have cause to believe that the child I carry is his. He needs to return before my pregnancy becomes obvious.”

“Ah. Yes, that is a problem.” Lost in thought, he lowered himself into an armchair, earning a scowl for his trouble. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, my Queen-”

“Spare me your courtesies.”

“Well then. Your brother?”

Despite her protests, the queen looked ruffled. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it is his.”

“That’s helpful,” the Hand mused. “If the baby resembles Ser Jaime, you can simply say it takes after your family.”

Cersei stifled a laugh. “I knew I had done well when I chose you for my Hand, Maester Qyburn. Nothing surprises you.”

She allowed him to rest in companionable silence for a while, sipping her abandoned tea as she flitted in and out of the room, choosing her afternoon gown. The sun climbed overhead, its light advancing across the floor by slow degrees. The sound of the sea outside lulled him into sleepiness. Qyburn was beginning to drowse when she murmured, “What are we going to do if he doesn’t come back soon?”

He jolted out of his comfortable reclining position, rubbing his eyes. “Jaime or Euron, Your Grace?”

“Either.”

“Well, perhaps Euron can be convinced of an early birth,” he suggested, wishing desperately for her to stop talking so he could sleep. “Even two moons early wouldn’t be out of the question, I remember seeing records of maesters who delivered children in the seventh month…”

“And what if my brother returns?” Cersei was very still.

“My Queen… I don’t think he is coming back.” Qyburn patted her hand with as much tenderness as he could muster.

She sighed. “I suppose my die is cast, then. Euron must return swiftly, and I must go to bed with him.” It didn’t sound as though she relished the prospect.

“If I might make a suggestion…”

"Please.”

“Men are simple creatures, my Queen. He would be more likely to return in haste if he thinks someone is waiting for him. Perhaps if you sent a raven, expressing your sincere affections and describing the joys of married life to which you are looking forward…”

She scowled again. “A love letter?”

“You needn’t prepare it yourself, I’ll copy one of Aegon the Conqueror’s letters to Rhaenys and move some of the words around,” he assured her. “He won’t know the difference.”

“It sounds like you have everything in hand already. Yes, yes, you can send something of the sort. Nothing _too_ forward, though. I won’t have him reading it aloud to his men.”

When he next woke, the sun had already passed its zenith and was creeping towards the west. He was still in the Queen’s antechamber, but now he was covered with a warm blanket, and there was a steaming mug of mead on the table next to him. Touched by her affection for him, he resolved to draft the letter to Euron immediately. Perhaps his Queen was hurting for a bit of affection, too. He took a deep draught from the mug and set off for his dungeon, with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Ser Strong was not in residence, and the prisoners were no more noisy than usual. His breakfast, long since cooled, still sat at his work table, and Qyburn became aware that he was hungry. He bolted down the half-loaf of bread, and the apple, but noted the congealed slice of lamb with disgust. Meat was unappetizing at the best of times. Hours in his dungeon would not have improved it. He wanted the foul thing out of his sight. He momentarily considered giving it to a lucky prisoner, but _all those stairs_ … In the end, he tossed the meat to the massive black cat that frequented his dungeon.

“Targaryens, Targaryens…” he muttered to himself as he rifled through his files. “Ah, here it is… Aegon… _The Collected Correspondence of Aegon the Conqueror,_ perfect.” Astonishing that there were extant records from Aegon’s days, just astonishing. He thumbed through the thick file, passing over the dog-eared sections for a less perused chapter, _Letters of Aegon to his sisters._ He read on, deep in thought, sipping his hot mead.

Three quarters of an hour later, he had copied one of the letters on fresh parchment, in a curly script he thought might pass as a woman’s. He had edited the text, substituting Euron’s name and title in various places, and removing references to the political events of the day. It would do, although he wished there were more erotic subtext to the letter. Still, he didn’t feel qualified to add such material himself—it needed a woman’s touch, and he knew Cersei would not be willing to involve herself in such a humiliating event. Perhaps Lady Frey—no, Haigh—would assist him in future.

But… He shifted a pile of junk, searching for the box of possessions collected from prisoners when they were brought to his dungeons. Ah! There it was. To his recollection, it contained the necessary materials. Searching through the box, he came upon an ancient pot of lip paint—taken off some whore, to be sure—and a half-empty vial of perfume he thought had belonged to Ellaria Sand. With these tools in hand, he returned to his workbench. He sprayed the letter with Ellaria’s heady perfume, then carefully applied the lip paint in the mirror of his golden dinner plate. Not a neat job, but Euron would never know. Qyburn pressed his lips to a space next to “Cersei’s” signature. If it worked, Euron would return within a fortnight; and the Seven Kingdoms would be assured of an heir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qyburn!! Not a nice guy, but who else is going to tell us what's happening in King's Landing?


	6. Alyn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty has a few surprises for Alyn, both welcome and unwelcome. Alyn contemplates his future profession.

Harys waited until they left the throne room to seize Alyn’s ear and twist until he yelped. “ _’Alyn asked for my hand, and I agreed?’_ Pray tell, when did you intend to share the happy news?”

Alyn rubbed his ear, wincing. In truth he was just as surprised to hear of his “marriage” as Harys was. He cast his mind back to their journey south, scanned for anything he’d said to Kitty that might have sounded like a proposal—nothing. They rode side-by-side all the way to Saltpans, her shyness wearing away as he pointed out local landmarks and shared funny stories about his exploits. Well, many of the stories were things that had happened to Harys or Donnel, but she didn’t need to know. She didn’t say much, but laughed at all his jokes, and every time he looked over at her, she was looking back at him. His cheeks warmed at the memory.

By the third day, she was talking back. She told him about the brothers and sisters she missed, and the dog she missed more, and all the things she was going to do when she reached King’s Landing. “Have a proper bath” had topped the list until he spoke of all the sights they could see together. She’d never left the Riverlands, but he had visited King’s Landing once before and knew. “You must see the Dragonpit, and climb Visenya’s Hill,” he urged as they forded a shallow stream. Crossing streams frightened her, as many things did. Girls were supposed to be scared of everything, he knew, but rivers? In the Riverlands? She must have a delicate constitution, even for a lady. “And then we’ll go to the Street of Flour and visit the bakeries. When I was there before we had these amazing glazed tarts, apples and plums and pears and fruits I’ve never even seen before. Those were expensive, but we could afford a pear tart, I’ll wager. And,” he went on, “we can get a meat pie for you. Perfect gravy, even better than cook’s.” For he was learning that she really didn’t like sweets, which still baffled him.

They crossed the stream with no mishaps save moist ankles, and were waiting for Donnel to water his horse when she ventured to share one of her own thoughts with him—her first, since the idea about a job as a lady-in-waiting. “I think I’d like to see the Narrow Sea most of all,” she ventured, offering a small, private smile that made his heart race. “I’ve heard the sea looks and smells different than the waters at home, and is even a different color! And all the ships must be very grand, and full of interesting things.”

“Then we’ll have to visit the harbor,” he improvised, although he hadn’t paid it much attention on his last visit. “That’s where the Battle of the Blackwater was fought, and Stannis defeated, you know. I wonder what it looks like now.”

Harys had ruined it by coming up behind them and prattling on about the Street of Steel, but it had been a nice moment. He counted each of her smiles as a rare and precious thing. Now he’d given her three. The ride to Saltpans seemed twice as long as before, so anxious was he to board the ship and hear her impressions to the Narrow Sea. That would make her happy again, he thought.

Oddly, given her behavior at the stream, Kitty wasn’t at all bothered by the water when she had a deck under her feet. Perhaps it was only horses she found troublesome. In any case, she stood at the rail until it was too dark to see, that first night, watching the sun set. Tandei was seasick, Harys tending to her, and Donnel drinking with the seamen, so they were alone for the first time since she rode into the stables and his life. For a few beats he hung back to study her, lest the moment lose its savor. The sunset above turned her hair to shades of copper and auburn, the cloak around her shoulders to a rosy pink. He did not recall whether it had been warm or cold, but the wind was up, slapping strands of damp hair across her face like so many whips. Seawater trickled down her face.

“Is the sea everything you imagined, my lady?” he asked, sliding along the railing to her side. She started at his sudden appearance, so transfixed was she by the water, but her shoulders dropped when she saw it was just him. _She is comfortable with me,_ he realized, and swelled with satisfaction.

“It’s… vast,” she said finally. “I thought the Trident was big, but then you know what’s on the other side even when you can’t see it. This is… it goes on forever. I can’t imagine where it ends.”

“Pentos,” he said helpfully, hoping it would earn a laugh.

Kitty’s mouth twisted. “No, I mean… what’s at the bottom? Do you think every ship that’s ever sunk in the Narrow Sea is sitting down there? Is the ocean floor made of rock, or sand? Mayhaps it is only seashells.”

Alyn had never considered the question. “I don’t know, my lady. I reckon some ships are down there, though. Especially in Blackwater Bay.”

“Except now, the ships are captained by porpoises and seals instead of Onion Knights.”

A snort of surprise escaped him. Had that been a joke? “Maybe so. We’ll have a look when we get to King’s Landing, see if we can spot any seals in the bay.” A wave smashed against the side of the ship, speckling their faces with saltwater. Kitty closed her eyes and leaned into it. She looked as pretty as the Maiden.

After that, they’d gone belowdecks to their chambers, and Kitty allowed him to hold her hand again as he helped her down the slippery stairs. He could still remember the feel of her tiny hand in his, and how she trembled. Once the motion of the ship made her stumble against him, and she’d thanked him for helping her keep her balance. He’d said… he’d said… that he would always be there to protect her, he thought. Had that been the moment? Did she interpret his promise of fealty as a proposal? That night, as Donnel and Harys led a symphony of snores, he tossed and turned thinking of her dozing in the next cabin. He’d dared to hope she might grant him a kiss some night in King’s Landing, if the trip went well. But he’d never spoken to her of marriage.

“I asked her the first night on the ship,” he improvised in the face of Harys’ confusion. “While you were belowdecks with Tandei. Only I didn’t want to say anything until we’d told Mother and Father.”

Tandei would not be put off so easily. “Kitty’s said nothing of this.” Her black eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I don’t know many girls who’d keep secret about a betrothal.”

His “betrothed” went rigid and wide-eyed at her inclusion into the conversation. That she had the gall to look surprised… “Er,” she chirped. “I didn’t know if it would please Ser Leslyn and Lady Perriane.”

“I don’t think it will _dis_ please them,” Tandei said doubtfully, “but did either of you think that Alyn might be promised to another??”

Well… no. No, he had not thought of that. “Am I??” he asked, horrified.

Everyone looked to Harys, except Donnel, whose eyes were trailing a shapely young lady of the Court down the hallway. “Well… no,” he admitted. “There is talk of Crista Nayland, but nothing has been settled.”

A shudder ran through him. So that was why Ser Raymond had visited so recently. His maiden sister, Crista, had accompanied him, and spent most her time in and around the sept. He remembered only that she was round and pimply and dull, and her plump white face reminded him of the flour paste the cook sometimes used in her stew. If he’d known his parents were considering her as his bride, he’d have asked for Kitty’s hand on purpose.

“Yes, I see why Lady Kitty is more to your liking,” mused Harys. “Yet I can’t help but think this will anger Lord Nayland. But the Queen’s been told, so there’s no taking it back now. Father will have to placate him some other way.”

“Mayhaps Lord Nayland would content himself with Donnel,” he suggested. His brother wouldn’t trouble to speak up for himself, not then; he was still fascinated by the court lady.

After a light lunch, he and Kitty were wed in a sensible sept just inside the Iron Gate. It was a brief ceremony; the septon evidently did not waste words, though the swift glance he gave Kitty’s green day dress and crown of crocuses said more than enough about his thoughts on the marriage. Brides were supposed to wear white, Alyn knew, but she didn’t own anything that color, and besides, why did it matter? It was just clothes. He felt no shame in his plain breeches and traveling cloak. A man should be comfortable on his wedding day.

Alyn counted two prayers and no songs. Tandei and Kitty both grew misty-eyed, and so did Donnel, but his tears might have been for his own prospects—he had liked Crista no more than Alyn. He and his bride ( _wife, now,_ he reminded himself) each lit a candle, he fastened his plain roughspun cloak about her shoulders, and it was over with a minimum of fuss. _I don’t feel any different,_ he worried as they left through the double oak doors. Shouldn’t this be more meaningful? He didn’t feel like he and Kitty were one flesh, one heart, one soul. He still didn’t even know what he’d said that she interpreted as a proposal, since his family hadn’t allowed them a single moment alone together since they left the Red Keep. _But she said the words,_ he told himself, _and kissed me._ That had been the only part of the ceremony he enjoyed. _She must want to marry me, or why would she do all that?_

It was only mid-afternoon when they emerged from the sept, wrinkling their noses at the pungent smell of the Rosby road. They’d chosen this sept for its proximity to their lodgings, and the road was lined with boring manses, dotted here and there with the odd inn or shop. Not one of the places he’d planned to show his bride, and they’d be off back to the Riverlands tomorrow—they wouldn’t get to visit any of the sights. He had only wanted one romantic day with her before he went home, and now he wouldn’t get it. Who knew when he would see her again? _Maybe we could slip away to the harbor for a walk before the wedding feast,_ he thought. _And Harys and Tandei and Donnel needn’t come._ They were man and wife now!

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Seized by sudden inspiration, he lengthened his stride, pulling Kitty along with him, and soon they’d left his brothers and Tandei far behind. They were _just_ visible if he turned and squinted into the distance, but he chose not to, preferring to pretend he and his bride were alone.

“Where are we going, my lord?” his wife asked in a breathless voice. Under her gown, her girl’s legs were struggling to keep up with his longer ones, and the quickened pace had brought out spots of red high on her cheeks. The circlet of crocuses she wore in her hair tilted rakishly to one side. For some reason, he could not say why, it struck him only in that moment that he would actually spend his life with her. She would warm his bed and bear his children, and give him her favor to wear when he tilted at tourneys, and when their lives were spent, they would lay in the ground side by side, just the same way they’d ridden to Saltpans together. _My bride._ He smiled. When he told their children of their wedding day, he would describe this moment, not the hasty ceremony in the sept.

“Why, we are going back to the inn for your party, my lady wife. I thought we might separate from my family for a bit. We are married now, after all, and may walk alone together.”

The smallfolk on the street must have sensed his joy, for everyone they met smiled and nodded and greeted them as friends. Suddenly the Rosby road did not smell so bad. It was a cool crisp afternoon, the scent of the sea was in the air, and the hot yellow sun high overhead warmed them all with its beams, and he was a married man. When he took Kitty’s hand, her fingers fit neatly between his own.

His family’s generosity stretched just far enough to rent a separate room for him and his bride for the night, a boon he hadn’t anticipated, but this also translated into a stinginess with the wedding feast. With good grace, he and Kitty contented themselves with the inn’s standard evening meal and ale instead of wine—which was just as well, he didn’t want to fall asleep on his wife as soon as they were abed. _Abed. With her._ Just the thought gave him shivers up his spine. He knew Kitty was not a maiden, no matter what her shy demeanor might suggest, and truthfully it bothered him not at all… except. She knew what to expect, and he did not. Donnel had given him some idea, with his oft-repeated tales of Cousin Ami, but to hear a thing described and to do it were two different things. How did one… start? Should he give her kisses first? Young ladies liked kisses, he was sure, but if truth be told he had little enough experience with that, too. When he’d kissed the cooper’s daughter, she had laughed at him and run away. A wife wouldn’t run, but she might laugh, later that night when he was asleep. _Oh no._ That was something else to worry about. He swallowed a draught of ale, intensely glad that he’d taken another room for the two of them, far away from his family.

As night fell and shadows gathered in the corners of the inn’s common room, so too did their party grow, traveling merchants and minor bureaucrats and the odd knight drifting over to their table one by one. Each clapped him and his new wife on the back, and many bought him a drink to celebrate. By the time true night came on, their group had taken over a second table. The mood was festive, with so many happy strangers drinking to their health, but inside Alyn was winding himself up more tightly by the moment. _Isn’t drinking supposed to relax you?_ he mused, halfway through his latest tankard. The ale in his belly and his tankard churned alike, and he realized his hand was shaking. It must be all the excitement. He set it down next to his wife’s, which hadn’t been touched at all. “Are you feeling poorly?” he asked her, raising his voice over the din of the common room.

When she turned to him he saw his own face reflected in her wide, glassy eyes. _I look funny,_ he noticed with detached fascination. That probably wasn’t good. “My lady?” he prompted.

Kitty took his hand, and it felt colder and clammier than he remembered. _Is that from her or me?_ “I am well, my lord. It’s only… the bedding,” she whispered. His stomach squirmed. It was well known that ladies did not take pleasure in the marital act, but she could have at least _tried_ to look excited. She was the one who had wanted to marry him, after all. Maybe he wouldn’t try very hard to make her comfortable!

“It’s part of marriage,” he said, not troubling to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “If you were so frightened, maybe you shouldn’t have told the Queen we were betrothed.”

The tears that had been threatening to spill finally fell then, two wet glistening tracks down her round cheeks. _She sure cries a lot,_ he noticed. _That will need to stop. A woman shouldn’t shame her husband by acting so sullen all the time._ He wondered if she had cried when she wed Grandfather, too.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “I didn’t mean for it to come out, really I didn’t, but the Queen was so unkind… I feared she’d send me away, if she only takes married women. I thought, maybe, if we pretended to be wed…” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, the circlet of flowers around her brow askew. “Maybe she would keep me. She wouldn’t ever need to know we weren’t married, if you were in the Riverlands and I here at court. But then your family believed me, and took us to the Sept, and I couldn’t get a moment alone with you to explain… Alyn, why did you go along with it?”

 _She doesn’t want me at all._ That explained a wealth of things. Through the haze of drink he realized he should be more upset; furious, in fact, that this woman had connived her way into a marriage that would deny him his Kingsguard ambitions and anger his parents. But he was more cross with himself. Cross, and ashamed. Their whole romance had been too easy, like a dream, really. _I didn’t have to do anything at all, not even ask for her hand._ Why had he let himself believe it was real?

“I—” he started, with no clear idea of what he meant to say. The ale was making his mind clunky. But one of their party guests had seen Kitty crying, and intervened.

“See how she weeps for fear,” the man announced, waggling his thick finger at them from down the table. “What a chaste young thing you must be!”

“I wish my wife had been as innocent,” japed his merchant friend, and all the men laughed.

“She cries now, but wait until she’s alone with her bridegroom! Those pink cheeks will soon blush with heat instead of embarrassment,” opined the innkeep’s wife, to a cacophony of cheers and whistles. She passed Alyn another ale, which he immediately gulped down so as to hide his face. But she took mercy on his wife, at least. “Is the ale not to your taste, dear? Could I bring you something else?” she asked kindly as the conversation moved on to their guests’ own wedding nights.

“A cider, please?” Kitty’s voice was so soft he could scarcely hear it.

“I’ll have it for you in a trifle, soon as I pass out the rest of these beers.” Then she leaned in and whispered something into his wife’s ear that he could not hear. Whatever it was, Kitty attempted a smile.

 _Why is Harys not stopping this?_ he wondered suddenly. It wasn’t like him to let men tease a highborn lady. He scanned the room twice before realizing his brother had disappeared. Tandei had gone as well, though Donnel was holding court at the next table—he appeared to have encountered someone he knew. He also appeared to be several ales deep, even moreso than Alyn himself. _He won’t be any use if these men insist on a bedding,_ he realized, and that was one thing that absolutely could not happen. He had no desire to be stripped naked by the matronly innkeep’s wife, no matter how kind, and these lowborn men could not be trusted to keep their hands off his bride without Harys to reign them in. They had no notion of propriety. He knew what Tandei had been made to endure at her wedding, and she was at least surrounded by her own family and other highborns. _She is my wife, for tonight at least,_ he thought, steeling himself to action. _They will not manhandle her in my presence._

In one long draught, he emptied his new tankard. Halfway through he realized he might stand, to draw everyone’s attention. Ale splashed across his cheeks and ran down his neck, inspiring hoots and cheers from the men around him. “I am taking my wife to bed!” he announced, to more cheering. He lifted his pop-eyed wife from her chair and heaved her over his shoulder. She weighed little more than his nephew Walder, but the movement made his head swim and his eyes cross. For a long moment he felt sure he must topple over, bringing himself and his wife crashing to the floor; but the worn rug and furniture rearranged themselves before his eyes, and he felt steady enough to move again.

Whistles and shouting followed them out of the room, but as soon as they rounded the corner to the staircase he set Kitty down. The exertion had made him queasy. Cold sweat broke out upon his brow, and his stomach was a tight ball of tension. “Think I might throw up,” he wheezed, bending in half at the waist. “Go on ahead.” He needed to pay a visit to the outhouse, and fast.

He felt a gentle hand on his back. “Stay quite still, and the spinning will pass,” his wife soothed in a low voice. “The innkeep won’t thank you to mess his hall.”

“I know that,” he whined, but opening his mouth was a mistake. His stomach, as if sensing a path of egress for his ale, swirled alarmingly.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” she crooned, rubbing his shoulders. “It will pass. Soon we’ll be in our room, and then you can lie down and I’ll open the window for some fresh air! Won’t that be nice?”

That did sound pleasant, actually, provided he could make it up the stairs. Cool clean air was a remedy for a great many ills, as Mother often said. He held that thought until the nausea passed. When he could stand again, Kitty gave him her arm and this time she helped him on the stairs, tsking and fussing over him the whole way.

Fifteen minutes later, with the remnants of his wedding feast spattered across the street below their window, Alyn felt something like normal again, save for the sour taste in his mouth. Kitty solved that by pouring him a cup of Arbor Gold, which Harys and Tandei had left as a present for them. Good stuff—cleansed the palate and brought back the weightless, floating feeling of good cheer he’d had until Kitty’s confession. His wife would allow him no more than a few sips, though, before taking the glass and finishing it herself.

“Hey,” he said weakly, “if you’re not going to be my wife for real, you can’t tell me what to do. Give that here.”

“It’s for your own good.” The bottle disappeared under the bed. It would be easy to overpower her and make a grab for it, but it seemed an awful lot of work to do for another swig of wine. _In the morning,_ he thought, and the prospect of morning made him yawn.

“I suppose you’ll need your sleep if you’re to attend the Queen tomorrow, and we’ll need to go back to the Sept after,” he reminded her. “Will it bother you if I sleep next to you, above the covers? I can put my head at the foot of the bed, if it please you, but I don’t think I’d like to lie on the floor just now.”

“Why would you lie on the floor?” He opened his eyes to find his soon-to-be-ex-wife peering down at him, her knees drawn up against her chest. “Do you need to vomit again?”

“No, there’s nothing left to bring up. I just thought you might be more comfortable sleeping alone if we’re to get an annulment tomorrow,” he yawned. “I promise I won’t bother you. I can hardly stay awake.” As if in agreement, his eyelids fluttered closed.

“So you do want an annulment, then.” She sounded almost disappointed.

Alyn sighed. What did she want from him?? “You just told me downstairs that the wedding was a mistake,” he mumbled into his pillow. “I have no wish to keep you in another forced marriage.”

“I wasn’t forced.” He felt a tentative hand on his arm, but jerked away from her touch. She’d already humiliated him, what else did she want? For him to stay besotted with her? _Well, I won’t,_ he thought, fuming. _Lady Crista will still have me. She at least is a maiden, and mayhaps I will learn to like her when we know each other better. And I will never think of you again._

“Alyn, did you hear me? I said, I don’t consider this a forced marriage. And if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I’m sorry for lying to you, truly, I didn’t do it on purpose… and I do like you… I thought maybe you liked me, too, when we were on the ship together… but if you don’t want to…” Her hand went for his arm again, and this time he let it stay.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” he mumbled, “Need to sleep.” He patted her hand once and rolled onto his side, as Donnel had told him he should when he drank overmuch. Let her sleep on the floor, if his presence was so objectionable. But after a moment, he heard her blow out the candles, and her slender arm wormed its way underneath his own to rest upon his chest.

“Goodnight, Alyn.”

He woke with a vicious sneeze. The movement jerked him upright, and the rush of blood to his head ached something frightful. For an instant he was sure he’d throw up again from the pain. He heard his wife’s voice from last night again in his head, “stay still and it will pass,” and heeded it. Good advice, even if everything else from the evening before was a wash. In time the pounding in his skull faded to a dull throb, and he chanced to open his eyes.

The morning was far advanced, to judge from the patches of sun on the floor, and though the window from last night still stood ajar, the room was a cheerful cool temperature. Someone had laid a crackling fire in the hearth, possibly a maid, possibly his wife. _Soon-to-be-ex-wife._ Whoever it had been, they were long gone now, and he was alone.

Now, with the room illuminated in the light of day and his eyes working properly again, he saw that his brother’s silver stags had purchased a fine bridal suite. If only he’d been able to use it… but his bride was gone, no doubt off to serve Queen Cersei with a smile on her face. And by the end of the day, it would all be over. He ought to go and see the septon himself while she moved into the Red Keep, try and preserve a bit of dignity. He could say Kitty had lied about being a maiden—it was close enough to truth, she’d lied about other things. It was clear the man hadn’t wanted to marry them in the first place. Sincere remorse and the rest of Alyn’s coin should convince him to grant an annulment.

He dressed in no particular hurry, splashed some water on his tired face, and changed shirts before dragging his trunk from the room. Kitty’s trunk remained at the foot of the bed, mocking him. Was she so eager to be shod of the life she lived before King’s Landing that she would leave all her things behind? _There might be some money in there,_ he thought, but the impulse was gone as soon as it had come. A knight did not rob a lady of her hard-won coin. 

The inn today was as noisy as the night before, maids and potboys and guests alike scurrying to and fro up and down the stairs. All scowled at him as they squeezed past his heavy trunk. It was a lot harder to move without his brothers to help him. His head swam. _Just get to the landing and you can rest,_ he told himself, before giving up and sitting down on the steps. _Stay still and it will pass._ When the wall in front of him stopped jumping and shimmying, he stood and dragged his trunk a few more steps.

In this fashion he reached the ground floor. Last night’s ale had been cleared away, but the fug of it still hung in the air, heavy and sour. He wanted to retch all over again. If he could just find his brothers, maybe they’d take his trunk and let him go into the street to take care of it.

“There’s our bridegroom!” bellowed a voice from behind him, followed by a clap on the back that near knocked him over. He turned to find the innkeep, looking insultingly well-rested and cheerful, sweeping the last of the wedding party’s detritus out the front door. A neat strip of folded paper nestled behind his ear flapped in the breeze. “Tired yourself out, did you?”

“Drank too much,” Alyn croaked.

The innkeep nodded with a sage smile. “You’re not the first or the last man to get jitters on his wedding night. I trust all went well, though, or your bride would not have been so cheerful this morning.”

“You saw her?” He’d meant to speak to her about the annulment, and maybe give her a piece of his mind to break her fast upon. But the ale had worked its dubious magic upon him. He didn’t even remember going to sleep.

“Oh yes, she was up and about before the sun rose, looking like she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Didn’t give her any rest, did you?” he joked, giving a hearty laugh that was completely at odds with Alyn’s mood.

“Did she…” he closed his eyes, swaying. “Did she say when she was coming back?”

“Yes, and she bid me pass on a message since she couldn’t wake you this morning. Where’s that gone…” The man patted his pockets, then searched the inside of his robe.

“It’s not that piece of paper behind your ear, is it?”

He plucked it from behind his ear with a flourish. “Ah! Put it there for safekeeping. Though it’s not very safe, if I forget about it altogether… I tell you, boy, enjoy your memory while you have it. I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my body.”

 _Just as I’ve lost my bride,_ he thought with ill humor. For he very much doubted she had really tried to wake him to say goodbye.

“Let’s see… her message… ah, yes. ‘Tell Alyn I expect to be detained at the Red Keep all day and will return here to find him sometime in the evening. Be packed and ready so we can move in as soon as possible. We needn’t go to the Sept.’’

He paused, but there was no more. “That’s it?” he prompted.

“That’s all she wrote. See for yourself.”

Truly, that was all it said, three sentences in her clean, curlicued hand, and her signature. The “i” in “Kitty” was dotted with a heart. _What’s she playing at?_ Was she mocking him?

That bore thinking upon. “Thank you,” he mumbled to the innkeep. “Where’s my family? Did they go for lunch?”

“Oh, they left,” the man said cheerfully. “Not long after your wife.”

Left? “Well where did they go?” he asked, frowning. This hadn’t been the plan. They were to lunch together at the inn, visit a few shops, and get an early night so they’d be rested for the ride home. At some point they needed to buy horses, as well.

“The harbor, I expect. Your sister said they were catching a ship.” The innkeep stowed his broom behind the front counter, oblivious to Alyn’s distress.

“But we’re supposed to ride home,” he protested, feeling stupid.

“They did mention that,” agreed the innkeep, switching to a mop. “I gather your brother—the tall one—ran into an old acquaintance last night, a sailor or oarmaster or something. He offered them passage for three to Saltpans at what they thought a good rate.” He shook his head, bemused. “Think they’re being robbed, personally, but no one bothered to ask me.”

“Three?” Alyn was beginning to feel like a trained parrot.

“Yes, three, boy, are you dim?” The innkeep sighed and looked him in the face for the first time. “As you’re to remain here with your bride. It may please you to know that they paid in advance for one more night in your suite, and your meals.”

“Oh,” was all he could say, distracted as he was by his family’s betrayal. They’d left him behind! He had assumed he would go with them back to their holdfast, leaving his new wife under the Queen’s protection. What in the seven hells was he supposed to do with himself in King’s Landing, with no connections and no skills? Harys hadn’t even knighted him yet. Panic was beginning to win out over his nausea.

“Are you quite all right, son?” The innkeep peered at him with something like concern in his eyes. “Can I get you some ale? Maybe a heel of bread?”

“No ale,” he blurted out. “But bread, yes, that sounds good. Maybe some nettle tea.”

After that he was allowed to sit quietly and force down as much bread as he could, which wasn’t much. But it helped, as did the mothering attentions of the innkeep’s wife, whose name, he learned, was Essie. She sat with him, refilled his tea when he needed it, and clucked with sympathy as he asked after his wife and family. In return, he learned that she and the innkeep hailed from the Stormlands and had come north when the village where they lived declared for Renly. “Nasty thing he did, taking for himself what was Lord Stannis’ by right,” she declared, pursing her lips. “I wouldn’t stand for it, so we left. We’re honest folk.” She glanced at him suddenly, a glint in her eye. “Where did you say you came from, again?”

“The Riverlands,” he said vaguely. He had a feeling the Frey name, and those associated with it, would not be popular in this house. “Essie, what can a man do for work in King’s Landing?”

“Well, there’s many a job for a lad willing to work hard, so long as you don’t cause trouble. What did you do in the Riverlands?”

“I squired for my brother.” Alyn shifted in his seat. If Harys had only bothered to knight him before he left…

“Might be one of our guests would need a squire, if you wait around long enough,” she offered, but with doubt in her eyes. “Or there’s the City Watch. I wouldn’t suggest that unless you were in dire straits, mind, they’re all of them thieves and brigands, just with shiny cloaks about their shoulders.”

They were disturbed by a group of travelers then, a group of maesters and acolytes up from the Citadel. As Essie bustled off to tend to their things, he was left alone in the corner to ponder her words. The City Watch… that didn’t sound too bad. It wouldn’t shame his family, or Kitty (whatever she was to him now,) and in time he’d have wages enough to purchase a passage to Saltpans of his own. _Actually…_ his pulse quickened. _If there’s more fighting, I might earn a knighthood on my own._ So many men of the City Watch were lowborn, his family name could only help him. _And you’ll get to live in the Red Keep, just like Kitty,_ his mind prompted him, but he shoved the thought away. That didn’t matter.

Feeling a surge of gratitude for Essie and her husband, he slipped an extra silver stag under his plate and left the inn. He could afford to be magnanimous; soon he’d be employed. And she deserved it, for giving him the idea. _Such a nice lady, not a bit like Mother. Why can’t she be like that?_

An hour’s wandering around the city and he was no closer to signing up for the City Watch. He _had_ learned that the beggars were merciless if you looked them in the eye, that one couldn’t simply walk into the Red Keep when it wasn’t one of the Queen’s audience days, and that Flea Bottom was to be avoided at all costs. He felt phantom prickles on his skin just walking past the place. At last he decided he should just ask the next Gold Cloak he saw where he could sign up. Blisters were raising on his heels, walking around all day on hard stone instead of springy grass, and the fierce southern sun beating down on his uncovered head brought back his headache. He thought wistfully of the cool sheets of his bed, back at the inn. _As soon as I sign up, I can go back to the inn and nap,_ he told himself. It would be hours before Kitty was done at court, and if they did decide to visit the Sept, it could wait one more day. The annulment would keep.

When he spied a flash of gold around a corner, he presented himself to the man, regretting his decision not to bathe this morning. He reeked of ale and bile. “I want to join the City Watch,” he blurted without preamble. “Where can I sign up?”

The man, whose hooked nose and wobbly double chin gave him the look of a vulture, scoffed down at him. For all that he was old and gone to seed, he did have several inches on Alyn. “You?? You’re no older than me son. Who’s going to take orders from the likes of you? Come back in a few years.” He elbowed past Alyn and strolled away with deliberate swagger.

“Wait.” The act of chasing him made Alyn’s lunch slosh in his stomach. “Wait, I’m sixteen! I squired for my brother, Ser Harys Haigh, for many years! I’m a man grown and I’m qualified!”

“I don’t know no Haighs,” the gold cloak grumbled. “Hedge knights?” He did slow, though, and Alyn saw his opening.

"We are descended from the late Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing,” he offered, not without some haughtiness. The man before him had no heraldry on his person, he judged he would be suitably impressed by Alyn’s lineage.

“You and half the Riverlands.” He spat. “Like I told you, come back in a few years. There’ll be room. You’re too skinny, but you’ve broad shoulders, should fill out enough in time.”

“But I need a job _now_ ,” he whined, aware of how desperate he sounded. “Please, ser, how am I to support my wife?”

“Wife?” That seemed to amuse him. “Should’ve thought of that before you came to King’s Landing, eh?” And he would say no more, no matter how far Alyn followed him.

But he’d learned a thing or two from the encounter. The next gold cloak he saw, he approached with a level gaze and an easy manner. He drew himself up to his full height and positioned himself at the man’s side, instead of running after him like a boy. “Excuse me, ser, but could you point me to your barracks? Father’s sent me down to join the City Watch.”

He was younger than the last, close to Harys’ age, Alyn judged, but his scowl matched the first man’s. He wondered if they were ordered to walk about the city looking surly, or if he’d just drawn the ill luck to run into two such peevish examples in a row. This man stopped to appraise him, at least, chewing on his sourleaf. “How old are you, boy?” he asked.

“Eighteen,” he lied, and put his chin up. _Look him in the eye or he’ll know you’re lying,_ he thought, and sweated. The sun and the long walk and last night’s drinks were proving to be a nasty combination. His stomach gave a loud grumble.

For some reason, his noisy stomach seemed to make up the man’s mind. “Not sure if I believe that, but who’s checking, and you look like you might have some more height coming to you. Have you any training at arms?”

“Yes, I squired for a knight in the Riverlands for three years.” He did not mention the knight was his own brother this time, and prayed the man wouldn’t ask.

“Got any family?”

“Yes, ser, my parents and brothers in the Riverlands, and my wife here in the city.” His stomach clenched again, from the heat or from his lies, he could not tell.

“No bairns? Good, you won’t have time for any for a while. S’pose we could give you a try. If you don’t work out, mind, don’t tell them I sent you.”

“You—you’ll take me?” he asked weakly. He was having trouble focusing on the conversation, what with his difficulty keeping his bowels under control.

“S’what I said, isn’t it? Come along, I’ll take you to the barracks.”

There was a swooping feeling in his stomach, as if Kingslayer balked at a deadfall with Alyn on his back. He was going to be sick. “Thank you,” he whispered, and emptied the contents of his stomach on the man’s shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alyn's projectile vomiting just about sums up my feelings about this chapter. It did NOT want to come together. I originally planned for him to appear only in the prologue, but I just liked him and Kitty and his family so much that I decided to make him a recurring character... and then I decided he needed another chapter right after Qyburn's, to see how he and Kitty ended up married... and then Kitty got some ideas of her own...  
> I apologize for the lateness, the normal posting schedule will resume next weekend. I had my yearly reunion with my school friends last night (via Zoom this year) and it went way later than I anticipated. And then I spent a good deal of this afternoon making a cheesecake instead of writing... time makes fools of us all :) Next update will be on Saturday again. Another new POV, and we finally get to see what's happening in Winterfell!


	7. Gilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Refugees from the Last Hearth arrive at Winterfell, with a variety of tales to tell. Gilly makes a promise.

Sam was crying again. Sighing, Gilly rolled over to put an arm around her man. He must think her asleep, because he was being very quiet, but she could see his vast frame shaking with sobs. “Sam,” she pleaded, “Sam, please don’t cry.”

There had been a letter from his sister that afternoon, a very brief letter stained with tears, and Sam had been weepy ever since. Randyll and Dickon were dead, burned by Queen Daenerys. His sister Talla pleaded with him to send little Sam to Horn Hill as soon as possible. They needed him, she said, he was the last Tarly, he would need to take up the mantle of leadership one day. There would be no questions asked about his legitimacy, though Sam was sworn to take no wife and father no children; they would accept him. She even suggested Gilly could assist her and Melessa as his regents until he came of age. It was left unsaid that the two ladies would bury their grief at their double loss by raising the heir together. _They may accept me at first, but eventually they will take little Sam from me. In spirit, if not in body._ For though she had liked Sam’s womenfolk, very much, she did not want to share her boy with anyone.

Sam had so far ignored this request, sidetracked as he was by misery. There was no love lost between him and his father, but he mourned for Dickon. His brother was the best parts of his mother and father, Sam had cried to her, Randyll’s talent on the battlefield tempered by Melessa’s gracious manner and level head. He confessed that he was no longer ashamed of being disinherited because he knew his brother would be a fine Lord. Now, if he refused to hand over little Sam, Talla would be the heir to Horn Hill. And though she would not voice the thought to Sam, Gilly knew Talla could not lead. Any man she married would run roughshod over her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Gilly, go back to sleep,” he mumbled. “I’ll be all right.”

“You are _not_ all right. I know you miss your brother, but you mustn’t cry for the dead. Don’t you know that every tear you shed is a call to the cold gods?? If you cry too much, they’ll sense where you are, and come to try and take _you_ , too. So you should only think of happy memories of Dickon, things to make you laugh.”

Through his tears, she could hear a huff of laughter. “That’s an interesting analogy.”

“I don’t know what an analogy is, but my sisters used to say it to me when I cried.”

“Well it’s good advice, no matter where it comes from.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. “If you give yourself over to mourning, death will creep in and take you, too... because you will be living more in the past than the present. Very wise.”

It wasn’t wise, it was common knowledge. When she was seven or eight, her sister Posey had given birth to a boy—the first she remembered at Craster’s Keep—and Gilly had cried when the boy was taken to the woods. She so wanted a little brother. But Posey just smacked her and warned her that the cold gods would take her, too, if they heard her bawling. Her sister’s own face had been blank as a stone.

Sam was trying to compose himself. He blew his nose noisily, probably into the sheets. “I know it doesn’t become a man to cry, but Gilly… I remember when he was a boy. We used to play together before Father separated us. Dickon never cared that I was slow, or bad at fighting with the wooden swords. I think he liked that he could beat me.” He hiccupped. “And he was always so good with our cousins, when they were babies. I hoped little Sam could get to know him, and maybe he’d take after him instead of me...” His body trembled with a fresh wave of sobs.

“Little Sam would make me proud if he took after his father! _You_ ,” she stressed, “are a great man, Sam, just as great as your brother. And your family will be lucky to have you as Lord.”

“I _can’t_ , Gilly, I can’t go home and take my brother’s place, I’m pledged to the Night’s Watch until the end of my days,” he wailed.

“Jon left the Watch,” she argued.

“That’s different. He died to do it! I don’t fancy dying.”

“Jon can release you from your oath as King, and Edd won’t stop him. He’ll probably try and find a way out, too, like as not.” She held him tight. “We need to stay and help fight, but after this is over, we’re _all_ going back to your home.”

Sam was silent for a moment, rubbing the back of her knuckles with his thumb. “…We?” he asked, so quiet she almost missed it.

“Of course, little Sam and I will go with you.”

“You… you wouldn’t want to go home? Back beyond the Wall, if the Others were gone?” 

“My home is with _you_ ,” she stressed. “You are Sam’s father, and my husband.”

“Not by the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, I’m not,” he grumbled.

“Then let’s make it so. When you’re released from your vows, we’ll do whatever your people do to be married.”

Finally he rolled over to face her. His face, though still shining with tears, held a hopeful smile. “You’d marry me for real?”

“I’ll do it today, if you want.”

He shook his head, still beaming. “No, we need to get me out of the Watch first… and I want Mother and Talla to be there.” He lifted Gilly’s face to his, and gave her the sweetest kiss. “Oh Gilly, you’ve made me so happy.”

They lay there together, Sam still planting kisses on her face, until she pushed him away, giggling. “I wish you had told me you wanted that.”

“We still need to get Jon to release me from my vows. And we’ll have to plan everything, you deserve a fine wedding.”

“What is a wedding like?” she asked, curious. Craster gave her wine when they were wed, but there had been no other celebration of any kind. And though she was aware of what a ‘wedding’ meant, she and her sisters had never been invited to any Free Folk ceremonies.

“Well, Mother will want the sept, but I think it would be more appropriate for us to marry before of the Old Gods,” he pondered. “The wedding takes place at night, in the godswood. I’ll stand at the front, and your head of house—ah, we’ll find someone to do that—will escort you and give you away. Then—”

“Give me away? What does that mean?”

“Well, he would offer you to me, and if you consent, you’d leave the protection of your family and become part of my house,” he explained.

“Who gives me if I don’t have a family? What a stupid idea.” She tried not to show her frustration on her face.

He shrugged. “Custom of the seven kingdoms, I suppose.”

“I don’t have any family,” she repeated stubbornly.

“Yes you do!” he insisted. “You have little Sam.”

Gilly thought about this for a moment. “Can he give me away?”

“That’s a _wonderful_ idea. He only has to say a few words, you can prompt him if you need to. He’ll walk you down the aisle, and then Dickon—” His face fell. “Dickon would have performed the ceremony, as my head of house.” Tears filled his eyes again.

“You said we’ll be in the godswood?” she asked, wanting to return him to happier thoughts. “Dickon will be watching, then, through the trees. And all of my sisters, and Pyp, and Grenn, and Shireen… even Maester Aemon.”

“Do you really think so?” He sniffled. “I’ve never thought there was any kind of life, after… but with Jon…”

“I _know_ so. Ask Lord Brandon if you don’t believe me,” she cajoled. “Your brother will always be with you. When we marry, and when Sam grows up… and when we have more children. That’s why there’s no need to cry, you see?”

Sam’s lip trembled as he tried to smile. “You’re so smart, Gilly. I’ll be proud to have you as my wife.” He laughed suddenly, amazed. “My wife. I never thought I would have one!”

The next morning, they returned to the library, Sam looking subdued but not crying anymore. Gilly found herself at loose ends. She tried to help with his research, but she couldn’t read very fast, and wasn’t smart enough to understand if she found something important. What was useful? More weapons? Descriptions of battles? Dragonlore? She sighed.

Sneaking a glance at Sam, she noticed that he was engrossed in a thick tome. She waved her hand in his direction, trying to get his attention. Nothing. If their son started crying then, five feet behind him, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Well… then he also wouldn’t notice her taking a little break. She marked her place and set the book aside, making as few movements as possible so as not to disturb him.

Stretching, she rose from her chair and wandered to the dirty little window, feigning a yawn in case Sam was watching. Outside, the temperature was dropping, and Lord Royce was barking orders at a group of frightened boys he was training at arms, sweat turning to frost in his beard. Fresh snow had already filled in she and Sam’s footprints. Gilly pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and tried to be grateful for the smoky fire she’d lit in the library that morning. It wasn’t much, but it beat being outside on a day such as this. Poor Lord Royce looked so cold. He was a nice man, he always called her “Lady Gilly” instead of “girl.” Maybe she would take him out a nice hot mead when he was done.

But that would keep. Right now she and Sam were training, too, in their own way. A tiny voice in her head that sounded like Shireen Baratheon admonished her to practice her reading, even if it wasn’t something that could help defeat the Others. She pulled a book from the nearest shelf at random.

_Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall among Savages, Raiders, and Woods-witches,_ by a Maester Wyllis. Not her first choice; she had hoped for something about tourneys. She had heard about tourneys before, she thought she would like those very much. Maybe one day when Sam was lord of Horn Hill, they could host one.

An hour later, she’d forgotten all about Sam and poor Lord Royce, so infuriating was the text. Maester Wyllis was wrong about _everything!_ She couldn’t believe someone so foolish could have forged any links at the Citadel, let alone enough for a chain. The man had obviously spent some amount of time at Hardhome, but really, he said _ice spiders_ had been seen in the forest around Craster’s Keep, that the watch had called haunted. Ice spiders! What a strange notion. She suspected the Free Folk that he lived with had told him tall tales. And he claimed that the source of the Milkwater was in the valley of Thenns, when it actually originated in the southern Frostfangs! That was so silly it almost made her laugh.

“Gilly…”

_“…Of wargs and skinchangers, I learned little, for the wildlings both fear and revere them. Those few who are said to have the gift would not speak with me, likely for fear their talents would be revealed as a charade if put to the test…”_ Now that was simply false; Jon could warg Ghost, she’d seen him do it.

“Gilly…”

_“…Many skinchangers claim a wolf or dog as their familiar, those being the easiest to control. Larger predators are said to be more difficult, and cats the hardest of all…”_

**“GILLY!”**

She jumped, smacking her knee against the table and disturbing a flood of loose papers. A bolt of pain shot through her leg. As she clutched her knee and sucked air through her clenched teeth, she saw Sam hovering over her, eyes wide with concern. “Are you hurt?? I’m so sorry, I only meant…” He gestured, and she saw he was holding a plate of food. “It’s gone noon, time for lunch. Thought you might be hungry.”

Gilly glared at him, aware that the injury was her own fault but not willing to say so. “So your first idea was to shout at me? Could you not have touched my shoulder?”

“I did that.” He smiled apologetically. “You didn’t notice. Now I know how you feel when I’m reading, eh?”

Gilly seized her plate without comment, but stopped rubbing her knee. She was not quite ready to forgive him.

Sam, as usual, ignored her silent reproach and chattered on. “You’re really enjoying that book, aren’t you? I used to be like that, when I was a boy. Not every book, but when I found something I really liked… everything else would disappear.” He smiled. “Dickon used to enjoy making me jump. I remember once, when Father was away…”

Together they finished the plate of hard bread and cold mutton as Sam reminisced. It was dull fare, but he didn’t seem to notice, caught up in happy memories of his boyhood, a time when Dickon was alive and his father was not yet so disapproving. She was not totally following the story, there were just too many mentions of people she’d never seen or heard of, but it was enough simply to watch Sam smile. _He’s such a good man,_ she mused, _and no one sees it._ _Nobody gives him what he deserves. When I am his wife, he will want for nothing._ She realized with a surge of queasiness that Sam, once relieved of his vows to the Watch, might be considered quite a catch. He was single and still young, and heir to one of the most important houses in the Reach. (From what she had seen of Horn Hill, she could not understand how any family could be _better_ off, but Sam assured her it was so.) She wondered if he would receive marriage proposals from highborn ladies when he was released from his vows. She stopped chewing—that was a dreadful thought. _Would_ there be highborn ladies flocking to Winterfell to see Sam? Or was this kind of thing arranged by raven? She did not know. The Stark girls would not be interested, they were too busy for romance, but there were other single daughters of noble houses around… what of the little Mormont girl? Lyanna might grow into her face yet. And the Lady of Torrhen’s Square was not married either. A bit young for Sam, but... She removed a wad of gristly mutton from her mouth and set it on the edge of the plate with distaste—she suddenly had no appetite. 

“Gilly? Are you listening? Not to be conceited, but I thought that joke was rather funny.”

“No, I wasn’t listening.” Her hands fluttered as she tried to put her thoughts into words. “Sam, are you going to get marriage proposals when you are released from your Night’s Watch vows?” she blurted.

He stared at her for a beat, dumbstruck, then burst into laughter. “Is that what’s bothering you? Marriage proposals for _me?!_ ” He continued chuckling, but Gilly did not find it at all funny.

“You said your family is very important in the Reach, other lords will want to unite their houses with you! Their daughters may come to try and entice you. If they’re not already here,” she muttered.

Suddenly she felt her fidgeting hands enveloped by one of Sam’s warm, soft ones. He was no longer laughing, but looking at her with concern. “Is this really something you worry about?” 

“I only just thought of it. Once word gets out, I think you’ll find that you have more options than the wife of Craster.”

“My father and brother _just died_ , Gilly. Everyone will wait a respectable amount of time before approaching me or Talla with any betrothals, and by then I’ll already be married to you.” His large thumb worried over her knuckles. 

“King Aerys II received offers to betroth daughters of great houses to Prince Rhaegar only a few weeks after Summerhall,” she protested, drawing inspiration from that morning’s study of Yandel’s _The World of Ice and Fire_.

His eyes widened—in surprise or exasperation, she couldn’t tell. “Did he now! I’m no Prince Rhaegar, as you may have noticed. I’m not going to be king and no one could ever call me handsome.”

“I think you’re very handsome,” said Gilly with surprise.

“You’re the only one! Well, I suppose my mother does say that sometimes.”

“I don’t think Eddara Tallhart would care if you are handsome or not—“

But their argument was cut short by a long blast from the horn in the yard. Sam’s back stiffened. “It’s not time for changing of the guard yet.” A flash of worry crossed his face. “Someone must be coming. Not walkers, or it would be three blasts.” They rose as one, Sam striding out of the tower and letting in a blast of snow and wind as Gilly gathered her sleeping son in her arms.

Many of the castle’s residents were also headed to the yard. Everyone had been on edge since they arrived at Winterfell, and Jon’s long absence was taking its toll. Had he come back at last? Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of red, bright against the grey stone of the tower. It was the Lady Sansa, and she looked as confused as Gilly felt. She followed the taller woman across the courtyard, breaking into a jog to keep up with her long strides. “What’s happening? Does the horn mean your brother has returned?”

“I doubt it, I’m not expecting him for two more days. No, we had word from my uncle that he is heading this way with his forces, it is probably he… but our scouts to the south would have seen them…” Her brow creased with worry. “Maybe you had better take your son inside.”

But no one was around, and she couldn’t leave him alone. At long last she found Jonelle Cerwyn, who had no interest in what was happening outside and was sewing quietly in her room. Such a proper lady was above all the responsibilities of child-rearing, but Gilly recalled that she would sometimes play with little Sam of an evening, and to her relief Jonelle agreed to watch him. By the time she hastened up to the North Gate, the portcullis was already inching upwards. 

A flood of people surged in as soon as the gate shuddered to a stop. Mounted and on foot, old and young, men and women, but mostly men. All were shivering and coughing, and many of them wore a haunted look she associated with her older sister Nella. Her sister had worn that look for months after one of Craster’s beatings left her lame. This was no army. She shouldered her way to the front of the crowd, searching desperately for Sam.

He saw her first. “Gilly!” he cried with relief as she emerged from a knot of worried old men. “Sam!” He swept her into a tight embrace, though they had parted only a few minutes before. “Sam, what’s going on? Lady Sansa said I should leave little Sam inside, so I went to find the septa, and in the end I had to leave him with Lady Jonelle—”

“Gilly, it’s the rest of the Night’s Watch and the wildlings. They were ambushed.”

“ _This_ is who’s left?!” They were half the number they should be.

“They said more might be coming. This may just be the first wave. But… They were resting at the Last Hearth, all of them, and the Queen’s dragon…” He swallowed, struggling to tamp down his anxiety. “It flew over in the night, no one spotted it with the weather the way it has been... The Last Hearth is destroyed, they said. There’s no one from inside the castle who made it here. Those who were camped outside seem to have had some warning, at least.”

That made no sense at all. “Why would the Queen attack them?!”

“I don’t think that she did. They’re saying… they’re saying the dragon was a wight. With blue eyes and all.”

Refugees from the Last Hearth trickled in for the rest of the day, but news was slower to come. Some of them gave the bare facts; they had been sleeping, then suddenly everything was on fire, and they fled while a large winged _something_ circled overhead. Others mentioned a woman riding the dragon. A tiny girl only a few years older than little Sam was convinced she had seen Aegon Targaryen, confusing fact and fantasy. Still others would say nothing at all, only shuddered when asked.

Gilly tended to believe the chieftain of the Free Folk, who would have seen wights of all descriptions before. Tall, ruddy-haired, and powerful, he arrived a few hours after the first horn had sounded, leading a band of the free folk. They’d been “mopping up” after the rest of the refugees, he reported at once to Lady Sansa, whom he seemed to have met before. There was not a scratch on him, but the laugh lines around his mouth were taut with tension, and he rubbed at his red, exhausted eyes as Sansa departed, shouting for more provisions for the new refugees.

Sam filled Sansa’s vacated space with a quickness that surprised even Gilly. “Did Lord Commander Tollett come with you?” Sam asked the chieftain eagerly, scanning the faces of the crowd filing in behind them.

“Edd? Ah—no. I haven’t seen him since the night before the attack. You know him?”

“But he must have been with the rest of you in the camp.” Sam looked toward the gate in hopeful expectation, but there was no one else coming. His face still held the smile that had bloomed when the man recognized Edd’s name, but a spark of panic was growing in his eyes.

“I never saw him after we entered the castle, he was busy talking to that boy lord. I don’t think there were many people that got out behind us. Shame. He was a good man, for a crow.” The chieftain patted his shoulder, his arm heavy with grief. Then he slunk away.

Gilly’s stomach turned over. _This can’t be happening, not when he’s just lost his brother, no no no_ , she thought desperately, eyes squeezing shut to stop her tears from flowing. She’d liked Edd very much, he never leered at her like the other men, but treated her like he would any of his brothers. She would shed her own tears for him later, but right now she couldn’t think of that. Sam had to be her priority; he’d already lost so much.

Understanding had not caught up to Sam yet. He stared straight ahead as if the other man were still there. His arms hung limply at his sides, and she did not hear him breathing. The only movement that betrayed him was a slight trembling of his lower lip.

“Sam?” she ventured, placing an arm around his back. “Sam, we don’t know he’s gone. He might come later. Maybe that man is wrong. He might not know who Edd is—my kind don’t know about Night’s Watch titles…” Her words rang hollow even as she said them; the man had known Edd’s name.

“Yes. Maybe.” Then the shaking started. “Gilly, what—what if—” His trembles turned to heaves and she sensed tears were not far off. He pulled her close to hide his spasming face in her hair.

“Come. Let’s go inside and wait for him.” And together, they walked slowly through the courtyard back to the castle, Gilly swaying under the weight of his arm.

Lady Sansa had already sprung into action, designating a large tent in the yard for the treatment of injuries, and mustering anyone with passing medical knowledge to tend to the wounded. She saw Maester Wolkan treating a screaming young boy’s wound as they passed, the cook handing him towels to staunch the bleeding. Others were put to work finding warm clothes and blankets for the deluge of visitors. A third group, mostly large men with no other talents, were set to clearing out any remaining rooms in the castle, even in the Broken Tower. Jonelle, Little Sam in tow, was quietly but effectively directing the second group from her perch on the dais as they entered the Great Hall, dispensing woolen blankets with special preference given to the children and elderly.

“Thank you for watching him for me,” Gilly said with a sigh of relief as she retrieved her son, who grasped in fascination after a shiny bauble Jonelle wore on her wrist. He whined in protest as she picked him up.

“It was no problem at all. Sam was a good helper, weren’t you? He helped me beat the dust out of all these musty old blankets.” Her boy smiled widely at her, babbling something about “spoon.” “I could use some help from an adult if you have a moment, we can watch little Sam together… oh… but something’s happened, hasn’t it?” she worried, glimpsing Sam’s face over Gilly’s shoulder.

“We don’t know yet. He is afraid a brother has fallen.”

“I know what that’s like,” Jonelle murmured. “Gods be with him. Would it help for me to keep Little Sam tonight?”

Gilly bit her lip, hesitating at the offer. Maybe she needed to focus on her husband right now… but she hated to leave Sam with anyone else. _He’ll be thrilled, he loves Lady Cerwyn,_ she thought, but she was spared a decision when little Sam called out for his father. “Papa! What’s wrong?” he asked, his sweet tiny face screwed up in confusion.

Their son’s words broke through Sam’s haze of grief where Gilly’s had not. Wordlessly he beckoned for her to give him his son, and held him tight as his shaking subsided. “Papa,” he cried, patting Sam’s shoulder. “Papa, is ok!” _He’s trying to rub Sam’s back like I do when he cries,_ she realized with a rush of affection. She joined them then, wrapping her arms around the two men who comprised her whole world, hoping she was strong enough to hold them together.

She did not know how long they stood like that, all three of them lost and exhausted by the long hours of uncertainty and horror. It might have been a few minutes, or the rest of the afternoon. She did not let go until Little Sam began to whine, confused by the stillness of his parents when everyone else carried on in ceaseless motion around them. Jonelle had gone by then, the pile of blankets diminished to almost nothing. Lady Sansa was tidying up in her absence.

“Go ahead up to our rooms with Little Sam,” she ordered Sam in an undertone. “I’ll bring us some food… and maybe a sleeping draught for you.”

“Gilly, no, I want to wait for Edd. It’s not so late yet. Maybe he’s still coming, and stopped for a rest. I know he probably won’t, but… he’s straggled in late before, hasn’t he?”

“It will not matter to him where you wait. And Little Sam needs to sleep soon.” She pressed a soft kiss to her husband’s cheek. “If you need to, you can keep watch from our window.”

Just as before, it was harder to gather food for the three of them than she expected. The kitchens had worked full tilt since noon to feed the needy, but there were so many, some of whom had not eaten in days. Guilt nagged at her as she fought through the crowd for a loaf of bread and a plate of ham, but she knew her son—and Sam—would go to sleep easier if their bellies were full. But as she observed the contents of the banquet tables, her concern grew. The food was so sparse! What few vegetables were left were shrunken and dry, the day’s stew worryingly thin. There were times she had eaten better at Craster’s Keep. She hung back, wondering if the three of them really needed to eat when there were so many who deserved it more.

“You see what I see,” came a voice from her left. Lady Sansa had drifted over to stand with her, wearing a morose expression identical to her own. “I am not old enough to remember much of the last winter, but I am told that rationing to this degree did not begin so early last time. Lord Royce says there is no cause for worry yet, but I wonder.”

“Hmm,” she replied. She did not know what else to say, not being in the habit of speaking with highborn lords and ladies. Jon was a lord, she supposed, they always called him “Lord Snow,” but in her mind she associated lords with Stannis Baratheon, of whom she’d been terrified.

“Is something troubling you, Gilly?” The lady’s eyes looked kind, but she was not totally reassured; she had seen those same eyes flashing quickly to anger before.

“It’s Sam,” she admitted. “I am worried for him. Our friend Edd didn’t get here with the rest of the Watch. And Sam’s still mourning his brother and all. Jon would know what to say to him, but I—I don’t.”

“Lord Commander Tollett is lost?” Her eyes widened, though her expression did not otherwise change. “That is sad news, if it is as you say. We did not have much occasion to speak at Castle Black, but I liked him. He made me laugh. Jon… Jon will be devastated. Was your Sam close with him as well?”

“Yes. Sam and Jon and Edd, they are like brothers.” The tears that had been threatening all afternoon finally spilled over, and ashamed as she was to weep like a child in front of a lady, she could not hold them back any longer.

Though surprised, Lady Sansa gave her a pat on the shoulder, much like the redheaded man had done to Sam that afternoon. The pat turned to a hug as Gilly sobbed. “I can’t—Sam needs me, but little Sam needs his mother—and I’m so worried—and the food is all gone—but I’m wasting your time, you must have important things to do,” she moaned, aware of her ridiculousness even as she hiccupped and sniffled. Oh, she would never be able to look Lady Sansa in the face again after this.

“Go to your men and do what you can to comfort them. Men are terrible with emotions. Sam will work through them better if you are there to guide him. Let me worry about the provisions.”

Gilly finally pulled away, embarrassed. To her relief, Lady Sansa had averted her eyes, and she took advantage of the moment to wipe her nose on her sleeve. “He wants to wait up for Edd, he says. Would it be all right if he switches guard duty with someone tonight?”

“He will be no use while he is tired and grieving. Keep to your rooms where it is warm. I’ll wait up for anyone who might come in the night.”

“Thank you, m’lady.” The kindness made her smile. “You know, you are very much like Jon, even though you look so different.”

“That is high praise, thank you. Rest as best you can tonight, I will have need of you both in the morning. I shall come get you if the lord commander arrives. You’re in the Bell Tower, yes?” Gilly nodded, and then Lady Sansa stalked away, already opening her mouth to direct a fresh batch of refugees to the banquet tables.

Her husband and son were fast asleep when she returned to their rooms, Sam snoring loud enough to wake the dead. _Let’s hope he doesn’t!_ Between the two of them, there was no more room in the bed, even for her slender body. The candles were lit, and she considered going back to the library tower to fetch _Hardhome_ for something to do, but tales of warring clans and the Great Starvation and winter’s hardships had lost their appeal. Instead, she sat up next to the window as the candles burned down, lost in her own thoughts, occasionally nibbling on a hunk of bread or a slice of ham. Whenever she came back to herself, she scanned the yard with anxious eyes, berating herself for forgetting her vigil. Every time she found an empty yard, and every time she saw Lady Sansa pacing on the battlements, just as she’d promised. Once she looked up at Gilly’s pale face silhouetted against the window in the dim candlelight, and raised a hand in recognition. Gilly waved back. Together, they waited until dawn came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID warn you about the amount of weddings in this story :) But I promise, this is the last one for quite some time, and they're not actually married yet. Gilly just likes to think they are!  
> Another new POV next week, but we're still in Winterfell. I've planned for 10 POV characters, in case you were wondering, with some appearing more frequently than others.


	8. Podrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon introduces his queen to Winterfell. Podrick makes a new friend and meets an old one. Bran continues to be creepy.

_“Oh, have you seen my boy, good ser? His hair is chestnut brown… He promised he'd come back to me, our home's in Wendish Town…”_

“Podrick, please stop,” sighed Brienne, flicking her horse’s reins. That was one of her many ways of signaling irritation. “Is this really the appropriate time for a song?”

“Songs are always appropriate,” Podrick argued good-naturedly. But he took her point. They were half a days’ ride from Winterfell, and it promised to be a solemn occasion. Brienne worried that bringing the dragons to the castle immediately was not wise, but the Queen refused to be parted from them, and there was a reason she and Jon were in charge and he and Brienne were not. Personally, he liked Drogon and Rhaegal. For all their size, they were not so different from scaly, fire-breathing horses, and Podrick had already conquered his fear of those.

“He’s right,” came a cheerful voice from behind them. Someone had ridden up and taken them unawares while they bickered, a man with close-cropped dark hair he sort of recognized from King’s Landing. “Go on, I like that one.”

“Would, but it is against my lady’s wishes.” He smiled at Brienne, who sniffed, which was as good as he would get toward an apology. “We’ll be home soon, anyway, I hear.”

“Home? Are you from Winterfell?” the man asked.

“No, but it’s home now. Brienne and I are sworn to the lady Sansa.”

“So you know the Starks, then,” said the man with increased interest. “Do you know, Arry—Lady Arya, I mean—how is she?”

“Very well,” Brienne confirmed. Her brows knitted together, and she peered over her shoulder with ill-disguised suspicion. “How do you know Lady Arya? Your accent is from King’s Landing.”

“I met her after I left the city,” he explained. “Knew her as Arry then, because she was dressed as a boy. But later I found out who she really was.”

“She told _you!_ ” Brienne bristled, and Podrick knew she was feeling hard-done-by. Arya had not been so forthcoming with her.

“No, but using “Winterfell!” as a battle cry gave her away.”

Podrick laughed and Brienne started. In her mistrust of their new companion, she seemed to have forgotten he was present. “That sounds like Arya. She never talks about her past, though, so I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

“Gendry,” said the man, holding out his hand. “Well met.”

“Podrick.” He shook Gendry’s hand, as Brienne afforded him a small nod.

Gendry did not appear to have anything else to add after this introduction, but rode on behind them, eyes fixed on the horizon. A few moments later, he launched into the second verse of “On a Misty Morn,” and Podrick joined in softly.

_“Oh, have you seen my boy, good ser? He wore a vest of green…”_

As they crested a hill, Winterfell emerged from a cocoon of fog and snowflakes. Podrick saw its imposing walls rising in the distance, standing straight and unbroken under the cloudy sky, just as they had left it. Somehow he always found it more impressive than King’s Landing, though it was smaller by more than half. Maybe it was something to do with the bold simplicity of its structure; maybe it was only because he knew the family that dwelled there was just as strong as its walls. He was likely imagining it, but he fancied he saw a spot of red on the battlements, waiting for them.

But their reunion would have to wait. The Queen’s commander, Grey Worm, ordered a halt half a league from the castle. “Unsullied, form up,” he called, and each snapped to attention. They were organized in neat lines in a trice. Jorah likewise roared something in Dothraki, and the Queen’s remaining _khalasar_ gave a whoop as one and tore off toward the end of the column to bring up the rear. Jon was left to arrange the small Westerosi-born party in a long column according to rank, period of service, and skill, which left him somewhat toward the back of the line with Gendry. Brienne, of course, was given a place of pride near Ser Jorah and Davos Seaworth. It made him smile to see her take her rightful place among such noble company. The Queen may not know her worth yet, but Jon certainly did.

Podrick’s fingers and toes grew stiff with cold as he waited for the company to form up. The Unsullied and Dothraki were orderly and ready to go, what was taking so long? Maybe this was usual for a royal procession? At his side, Gendry was suffering even more than he, visibly shivering as he huddled atop his rounsey. Would that they had some nice spiced wine to share… but that would keep. Distraction might do just as much to warm them.

“So. Lady Arya,” he said, a moment later they were still stationary. He and Brienne had become accustomed to one another’s silences, could practically carry on conversations with only the quirk of an eyebrow or the twitch of a cheek, but he found it difficult to endure idleness with anyone else. The long wait at Gendry’s side was making him antsy.

His new friend started, lost as he was in his own thoughts. His rounsey snuffled in warning. “I thought she was dead,” Gendry said quietly, jaw set. “After we were separated, I never heard another word about her. I never knew if she got home, or was killed on the road, or if she married some lordling… It was the surprise of my life to find out she was well, and at home with her family.”

“She was in Essos,” Podrick offered. “Braavos, I think. She only returned some months ago.”

“Braavos?!” Gendry’s black brows lifted in astonishment. “What took her there?? She was dead set on finding her mother… but not long after she left, I heard what happened to Lady Stark, and her brother Robb. I always wondered…”

Podrick shrugged. “I don’t know, you’d have to ask her. Arya doesn’t talk very much.”

“She never shut up when I knew her.” He looked thoughtfully at his saddle’s pommel, as if contained the answers to all the universe’s mysteries.

“I really know Lady Sansa better,” Podrick chattered on. “I used to squire for Lord Tyrion, her husband, you know... Now I squire for her sworn sword, Lady Brienne.” He suspected Gendry was not listening, still brooding over Arya’s mysterious disappearance, and was faintly surprised when he responded on-topic.

“Yes, Arya used to speak of her sometimes. Never anything good, but I sort of think it was so she didn’t miss her so much. She always scrapped with the other young women we met.”

“Sansa did not always have positive things to say about her sister, either. But I know how lonely she has been.” Podrick suddenly realized how very forthcoming he was being with this man he just met. Brienne would not approve. Brienne rarely approved of friendliness.

“You sound like you know her well,” Gendry said. He looked over with a knowing grin. His horse had buried its nose in the snow, searching for something to nibble.

“I do. I mean, I’ve spent a lot of time around her. As a squire. Only her squire.” Far from quashing Gendry’s suspicions, his protests only made his new friend grin wider. “Truly! Sansa is a great lady. But when it comes to my personal taste, I prefer brunettes.” As much as he liked Sansa, he never thought of her that way. Well, not anymore. They’d been through so much together, he could no more easily look at her with a man’s eye now than he could Brienne. But he knew there were rumors about the two of them at Winterfell already… and if Gendry opened his mouth to Arya… oh, he was well and truly sweating now.

His new friend shrugged. “I know the feeling.”

It transpired that Tyrion was to blame for the lengthy wait. From the mutters that reached he and Gendry at the back of the line, Podrick gathered that the Queen insisted on her Unsullied leading the way, and her Hand argued that it would be wiser to put the Westerosi in front. Sandor Clegane, who was a bit further up the column than he, had snorted in disdain when news of the argument made its way back to them. Privately, he agreed. The northerners would be too busy goggling at the dragons to pay any heed to the soldiers. But apparently the lineup was still a point of contention when the royal couple and their Hand passed him by.

“The smallfolk will want to see your own people at the head of the column, my Queen,” Tyrion was saying. “However few they may be. You cannot be seen as a conqueror, first and foremost, if you want their love.”

“The Unsullied _are_ my own people,” said the Queen in a steely voice. “And my _khalasar_. They have supported me longer than anyone born on Westerosi soil, including you.”

“Yes, as you so often remind me. But these northerners are not a trusting sort, my queen, they would prefer to see Westerosi faces, even hated ones, before those of a foreign land…” And then they were past him, still bickering as Jon followed quietly on his horse.

“If the Imp thinks the northerners would prefer him to an Unsullied…” Gendry muttered, rolling his eyes. “And I heard the man was so clever.”

“He has a point,” Podrick argued, ever loyal to the first man he served. “The smallfolk don’t like outsiders, that’s true enough.”

“Well, I’m a smallfolk, and I don’t like him.” His new friend brooded. “Did you know the district where I was born was razed to the ground during the Blackwater? Flea Bottom. Many of those I grew up with are dead because of him.”

Podrick squirmed. That was true in its essentials, but he did not understand. Tyrion could not have saved everyone. “I fought at the Blackwater, you know,” he said softly. “Tyrion too. He didn’t ask the city to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t take the Flea Bottom folk into the Red Keep for safety, either, did he?” Gendry scowled and just for a moment he looked like someone… someone Pod remembered…

Thankfully, for his debating skills were nonexistent, Brienne rode up at that moment to inspect his person. Neither of them looked exactly fresh after traveling for days; he knew Sansa would not approve. Brienne likewise appraised them with a critical eye. “You both look decent, but pray don’t speak when we ride in. There will be time to take counsel later. Podrick, your cowlick—” she began, but he was too fast for her. He had licked his hand before the words left her mouth and rubbed at the back of his head. “Better,” she said with approval. “I’ll meet you inside once we’ve been presented.” Then she brought her horse round and trotted off without them.

They dismounted, and Gendry joined him in rubbing his face with melted snow and shaking out his cloak, shooting furtive glances at him for instruction as he worked. Podrick had a shrewd idea that he wanted to put on his best face for “Arry.” “Put that warhammer somewhere, don’t carry it, she’ll think you’re showing off,” he murmured as they wiped their faces. Without comment, Gendry immediately saddled up, warhammer tucked out of the way, just as he’d suggested.

Their party, newly organized according to the Queen’s specifications, emerged onto a wide, blank plain blanketed with snow. Tongues of the Great Grass Sea and Slaver’s Bay and the Summer Isles mingled around him, and though he could not understand them, the faces around him were not impressed. Podrick felt a twinge of superiority. He had recognized the strength of the North right away. The Unsullied and the Dothraki overlooked it to their folly.

His heart lifted when the portcullis rose, shrieking its protest. Sansa would be waiting just inside to welcome them, and perhaps Arya, too. Gendry would like that. He stole at glance at his riding companion and found his gaze likewise fixed on the portcullis. He wondered if the man had ever been to Winterfell before, or had just heard about it from his “Arry.” Either way, a hot meal and a bed awaited him. Gendry seemed a man of simple tastes.

A shrill cry from overhead startled the train. Drogon, black, wide-winged, sailed over the battlements of Winterfell as if they were made of children’s blocks. Rhaegal circled above like a vulture. The sun was setting behind the castle.

He did not witness Jon’s introduction of Daenerys as his new Queen, trapped as he was in the stables attending to Brienne’s courser, but he could make an educated guess as to how the Starks had received her; Sansa was extraordinarily tight-lipped as she welcomed himself and Brienne into the Great Hall. Arya made no comment, but he detected a stiffness in her posture that was not usually there. Brandon looked like he was not fully present, which could mean anything, really.

Still, Sansa showed them warmth enough. She hugged Podrick and grasped Brienne’s hand, which was as good as a hug where his lady knight was concerned. “It is such a relief to look upon the faces of friends again,” she murmured, in a voice that was not meant to carry beyond the three of them and her siblings. “Will the two of you walk with me a bit? Much and more has happened since you went south.” Brienne nodded, and though no words were exchanged, he saw thoughts pass between them. Podrick’s face fell. He would be pleased to catch up with Sansa, but it _had_ been a long journey surrounded by mostly men, and he had already spotted a girl or two who looked ripe for a tumble. He had always found northern women to be most intense. Maybe it was the restrictive clothing.

That gave him an idea. “Lady Arya,” he ventured. “On the way north, I met a soldier who asked about you. Gendry?” If the gods did not wish to grant him female company for the evening, he could still put in a good word for a friend.

A man who knew Arya less well would have noticed no difference in her expression, but Podrick detected a slight set to her jaw. “Gendry?” she asked, tasting the word and finding it bittersweet. “Is he well?”

“He seems so, although I don’t think the cold agrees with him.” Arya let out a breath, the beginnings of a smile turning the corners of her mouth. “He was anxious to see you. I got the impression he thought you were dead.”

“He would, but he would be wrong. Not today.” Podrick frowned. He thought word of her… friend? suitor? would please her, but all softness had left her face.

A loud fake cough disturbed them. He turned and saw Brienne pretending to cover her mouth in courtesy. “Podrick, I’m sure this Gendry can introduce himself to Lady Stark on his own time.”

“Doubtless.” Sansa covered her own mouth, hiding a smile. Brandon stared into the middle distance.

The three of them bid goodbye to Brandon and Arya and slowly toured the Great Hall, exchanging news and worries. Despite the chaos of the morning, all was in order among the staff, rushing to and fro around them to carry out Sansa’s crisp commands. Some were clearing space for the trestle tables to lay out the welcome feast; others ported luggage through the hall for their more distinguished guests. He saw several men attending to trunks that could only belong to the Queen, with her dragon insignia. Podrick did not envy them, for the chambers Jon and Daenerys were to share were up several flights of stairs. As they talked, other visitors trickled in one by one, no doubt lured by the smell of roasting meat and the heat of the fire. The Unsullied were too disciplined to descend on the Great Hall without Grey Worm’s explicit instructions, but some Dothraki had wandered in in search of a welcome feast, sniffing the air hopefully and sending the kitchen girls into wails of hysteria. Many retreated to the shadows or hid behind sturdy-looking northmen.

“Idiots,” sniffed Brienne, sweeping past a herd of squealing maidens. “They’ve had worse with the Ironborn and Ramsey’s folk. The Dothraki are not like to harm anyone.” And they weren’t, milling around in small groups, taking stock of their surroundings and fingering the wall hangings. One aged Dothraki examined the direwolves carved on the high seat of the King in the North with fascination. If clad in mail instead of leather, he might have resembled kindly Ser Davos. Nevertheless, the staff gave him a wide berth.

“Oh, Jonelle, a moment please.” Sansa hailed a moon-faced blonde as she hurried by. “Could you tell Cook to start serving dinner? Buffet-style in here, and there are more tables set up in the yard for those who can’t fit… Thank you…”

“Leave it to me.” Jonelle nodded and bustled away, Podrick’s eyes following her. She was a bit heavier than he liked, but she had the cutest little mousy voice…

“That was Lady Cerwyn,” Sansa announced at Brienne’s raised eyebrow. “ _Lady_ Cerwyn, Podrick, so don’t get any ideas. She’s become something of my right hand while you’ve been away, Brienne, I don’t know how we did without her.”

“We are pleased to have left you in such good hands.” Completing their circuit of the hall, Sansa led them into a quiet gallery behind the high table, where they could speak more privately. “Speaking of…” Brienne lowered her voice. “I don’t see Lord Baelish about.”

“And you won’t, unless you visit the lichyard.” Sansa’s smile was purely predatory, a wolf’s smile. “But no doubt you’ll have that tale from someone else before long. I wanted to ask you both to a private meeting in my chambers—tonight, if possible. I would have all the news from the south before the war council on the morrow.”

This was the first Podrick had heard of any war council. “Ah—are we meant to attend that, my lady?”

“Brienne is. I’ll have need of you elsewhere; Jon insists that every man over twelve and every woman over fifteen be trained at arms in defense of Winterfell. I think your skills would be better put to use in the yard, with the younger boys and some of the women. My sister will put you to work.” She turned to Brienne. “You’ll be with me.”

“Very well, Lady Sansa, we’ll join you once we’ve supped and refreshed ourselves a bit. Will you be available after the feast?”

“Yes, I plan to be.” Sansa wrung her hands in worry. “I’ve been up all night, so if I should fall to napping in my chambers, I give you permission to wake me.”

“Are you expecting some news?”

“Not expecting. Hoping.” For the first time he noticed the dark shadows under her careful makeup. “The wildlings and the last of the Night’s Watch headed south some days ago, to escort the smallfolk of the Last Hearth to shelter. Some have made it here; some have not. Last night I waited up for any stragglers, but...” She sighed, and her mouth sagged. “Those men are the only ones who actually have experience fighting the dead. Each one we lose leaves us much the worse off.”

Brienne clucked her tongue sadly, shoulders slumping. The news was ill, if not entirely unexpected. “Why did they abandon the Wall, my lady?” Podrick asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer.

Sansa sighed again, looking ten years older than the last time he saw her. “The Queen’s dragon,” she answered, with forced lightness. “He has turned. The Night King commands him now.”

Brienne somehow still had an appetite after that and abandoned him in the Great Hall, with promises to meet him in Sansa’s chambers later. Podrick, though, found he had no taste for food. As he strode out of the hall he passed the youngest Stark, who had recently returned to the here and now. Brandon’s eyes looked normal, at least. “Welcome back,” Podrick said to him softly, pausing. “Where were you?”

“Looking for Viserion.” Bran met his eyes at last, though Podrick had an eerie feeling he was not _seeing_ him. “Sometimes I can follow him, and the other slaves of the Night King. Only when he wants me to see, though. Not today.”

Curiosity won out over the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Can you see what has happened to the rest of the Night’s Watch? Or the smallfolk from the Last Hearth?” He was not completely sure how Bran’s gift worked, though he had the gist of it from Sansa. He had wondered why Bran did not simply tell them where the army of the dead was, if he could see everything, past present and future. But now it sounded as though his abilities could be… _interfered_ with.

“Oh yes,” said Bran tonelessly. “Most of them are marching with the dead now, but we will see a few more. My sister has prepared for guests well, though, no need to trouble her. Are you busy, Podrick?”

“Not until after the feast.”

“Then would you wheel me to my chambers? I have a few letters to write, but alas, everyone has forgotten that I have to be moved around like a cyvasse piece.” Podrick couldn’t tell if he was making a joke. He responded with an unsettled “hmm” noise.

Sweating, he ascended the the tower, taking the time to reflect on his rash decision to help Bran. He had never visited his chambers before and was not best pleased to discover they were at the top of a staircase. Halfway up, Bran assured him that plans to build a ramp of some kind were in the works, but naturally other problems took precedence right now. This was little relief to him as he huffed and puffed up the last few stairs with Bran on his back. Blessedly, there was a spare wheelchair up here, and he slung the younger man into it none too gently. “That’s a workout, and make no mistake,” he panted, and sank into the unused desk chair. “I won’t be needing to spar with Brienne today.”

“She’ll find something to occupy herself.”

“Why don’t you just move to rooms on the ground floor? Then you won’t need help to get around.”

“I like being up above everything.” Bran stared at him in that disconcerting way of his, then offered a smile, which was somehow more troubling. After a moment, he said, “Why don’t you rest your eyes, Podrick. I’ll be a few minutes.”

“I’d just as soon not fall asleep, my lord, I have things to do before bed.”

“Suit yourself.” As Bran’s quill scratched away, he rose and walked to the window. It was really a spectacular view, he reflected, he could see why Bran preferred to keep this inconvenient room. From here he could see the cold, deep pool in the godswood, the expansive plain he’d crossed earlier that day with Brienne and Gendry, and the length of Winter Town. In the distance the jumble of pine trees that made up the wolfswood stood silent under the darkening sky. Silhouettes of crows hovered above the treeline, perhaps circling their prey, perhaps simpily stretching their wings. The setting sun painted the sky rose and gold and russet, fading to a remote blue far above the black earth. A man could feel a king in this room.

It occurred to him to wonder where he would be staying. Last time he’d been at Winterfell, Sansa had given him ample quarters, better than he probably deserved, but with so many people in the castle he probably could not expect to keep those. But, he’d slept in many worse places. All he asked was a warm, quiet place to take a girl, preferably near Brienne’s rooms. She’d never admit it, of course, but she had come to rely on him for help with her armor of a morning.

“My sister has you set up in the north wing,” Bran said, rattling him out of his reverie. “I’m afraid you won’t be near Lady Brienne, but you may be glad of it later.”

“How did you—?” Sansa had said nothing of mind reading. But maybe Bran had seen into the future, where they’d already had this conversation. Or maybe he was just making casual chitchat. Talking to Bran was making his head hurt.

“I’m sorry, I see that I alarmed you. Sometimes I forget what I’ve already said to other people.” For a moment he sounded like the polite young man he should have been, not the three-eyed raven. Podrick wondered if the old Brandon Stark was still lurking there, beneath the surface. He had finished his letter, and now folded it into tidy thirds.

“It’s no matter.” The silence stretched out as they both stared into the flame of the lone candle on his desk, slowly melting a brick of dark wax. Bran seemed content to wait, but the stillness of the darkening room was making Podrick itchy all over, as if he’d laid down on a hill of ants. That had happened to him once, he knew the feeling. “So,” he ventured. “Who are you writing to?”

“This one’s to my aunt.” That made him scratch his head. He didn’t think the Starks _had_ an aunt anymore, but perhaps Bran had just visited some other timeline where Lysa Arryn was still alive. He wondered how Lord Robin would feel, to receive a letter addressed to his late mother. “And I also need to send this one from earlier. Jon is going to argue with our bannermen about inviting more people to Winterfell, so I thought I’d steal a march on them and send an invitation now, before anyone can oppose the idea.”

That piqued his interest. “Smart, my lord. Who are you inviting? If—if you can share that with me,” he finished lamely.

“Oh, many and more,” said Bran, with a lazy wave of the hand. “Cousin Alys, the Glovers, some allies to the south… But it’s family business, you mustn’t speak of it to anyone else.”

“I won’t, I promise.” He drummed his fingers on his knees. Then: “Southern allies?” Could it be that some of the Crownlands houses had pledged to Daenerys? That would be a great help.

“As I said.” The dying sun cooperated by moving behind a cloud, dimming the room as Bran made his mysterious pronouncement. A raven sailed past the window, _caw, caw._ He wondered if Bran had warged it for effect.

Podrick was still puzzling this over when he headed to Sansa’s solar later in the evening. Most of the houses sworn to Dragonstone had skulked back home after the loss at the Blackwater, and those who proved more steadfast had marched north and died with Stannis. Who was left? And could they really trust anyone who had been so false? Perhaps Bran referred to other allies, in Dorne, or the Reach… but who among them would come to the North’s aid? Before Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion, no Stark had ever married further south than the Riverlands, of that he was sure. They would have no family there.

 _Maybe Sansa can shed some light on this,_ he thought, and picked up his pace. She always seemed to know everything. But she wasn’t there, as she promised she would be. He even peeked into her bedroom to make sure she wasn’t napping, but it was empty. The thought of sleep made him yawn as he closed the door. Should he wait, then?.. but he didn’t want to add to the rumors that already swirled about them, that he was more familiar with her than a squire should be, that she kept him closer than necessary. It was utter rubbish, Sansa was more like a sister to him than anything, and she had Tyrion… but such talk could damage his reputation. No girl would want to go to bed with him if it was thought that he was in love with Lady Stark!

As he dithered, debating whether to try Arya’s room next, he noticed a scroll of parchment tied with a purple ribbon poking out of a bowl of fruit. Their old system; purple ribbons marked her notes to him, and pink for Brienne. Smiling, he unrolled the note.

_“Podrick—_

_Brienne and I were called away to meet with the queen and her advisors. We may be a while, and I am very tired already. Shall we break our fast together on the morrow? I’ll have Perla set two places._

_—Sansa”_

That suited him down to the ground. She would not appreciate him nodding off mid-conversation, and he thought he might. The note went into his trouser pocket and his hand went into the fruit bowl again. She had peaches in there, which was a nice surprise. He hadn’t seen any since they left King’s Landing.

There came the tapping of a young lady’s footsteps outside the door. “Will you be wanting your evening tea, milady—oh!”

Podrick turned to find Perla, Sansa’s maid, blushing just as pink as the peaches at her mishap and looking nearly as delectable. He had fond memories of her from his last visit, very fond indeed. The night before he left for King’s Landing she had practically dragged him to her room to have her way with him—not that he was complaining. “Perla! It’s so good to see you. You were not in the courtyard when we rode in, I wondered if you had gone into service elsewhere… or married.” He took her hand and felt a tremor of suppressed nerves. That was new. Perhaps she _had_ married while he was away. “You are even prettier than I remember.”

“Thank you, Pod—or is it ‘ser’ now?” When she smiled, her eyes were still catlike in their mischief. _So all has not changed._

“No, still just Squire Payne for the moment.” He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, which was rough and callused from hard labor. But her touch was surprisingly soft, he remembered. “Who will knight me if the one I serve has not been knighted herself?”

“Did you not meet any other knights in the capital? How about other ladies?” she teased. _So,_ Podrick thought, _it’s going to be like that. Mayhaps I am not so tired after all._

Perla gave him a most enthusiastic welcome back to Winterfell. She was just as inventive in bed as he remembered, and rather wore him out. When they finished, it was too late to wander about the castle searching for his room, so she took pity on him and let him stay the night. “Just this once,” she scolded, but there was no ire in it; her eyelids were already drooping. “And don’t wake me for a second go, Lady Sansa will need me early.”

He frowned at her back as she rolled away. That had only happened once! But she seemed to enjoy scolding him, so he let her do it. “You know, some ladies appreciate my attention,” he teased, nuzzling the back of one bare shoulder. “Maybe I’ll favor one of them tomorrow night instead.”

“So long as you come back to the best, I won’t begrudge you nothing.” Her voice was drowsy.

Though he felt just as weary, Podrick wasn’t ready for sleep yet. Perla could tell him all that had happened while he was absent from Winterfell, things Sansa would not deem worthy of notice. “Don’t go to sleep yet,” he pleaded, poking her playfully in the side. When she did not respond to that, he blew in her ear.

Perla rolled over, glaring, but was disarmed by his wide smile. That always worked. She shook her head ruefully, lips quirking in a grin. “I forgot what a troublesome wretch you are.” She gave the tip of his nose a peck.

“I just want to hear the news,” he protested. “Tell me what’s been happening. I haven’t had time to speak with Sansa yet, and Bran is…”

She snorted. “Don’t get me started on that one.”

But he did want to get her started. Bran had been troubling him all evening. “Is he… all right? I mean, I know he’s a bit different, but I don’t remember him being so cold before.” To coax her story along, he began rubbing the day’s weariness out of her shoulders. He couldn’t remember if Perla was the one who liked backrubs, but who would say no when one was offered?

“Ooh, that’s lovely, you have such nice strong hands.” She giggled, a refreshing sound, and he kissed the crown of her head. “I don’t know… my work doesn’t put me in milord’s path very often, he isn’t often seen out of his tower. Spends most of his hours alone up there, writing letters or some such—he’s always stained with ink these days. And the times he isn’t hiding away, he just sits in the yard, looking spooky. Puts the wind up you, it does.” She shuddered, and he felt another knot in her back. A moment’s work, and it eased. “My, you’re a gem, you are. Would that you could rub my shoulders every night before bed… shame I’m not a great lady, or I’d marry you.”

“A crying shame,” he agreed, and they both snickered. He did not want to be tied down, which she knew, and she had some kind of loose arrangement with one of Lord Royce’s grooms, which he knew. When her groom returned to the Vale she would go with him and they’d marry… but until then, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “What else? He said some very odd things to me this afternoon. Is he the sort to tease, do you think?” He thought not, but Brienne often bemoaned how gullible he was, and the Starks had a strange sense of humor.

“Oh, you can’t listen to most of what comes out of his mouth. Something out beyond the Wall turned him funny. He don’t say much, anyhow, not since Lady Reed left. She used to try and talk sense to him, but she’d always come out of the tower fuming, and soon she left for good.” Perla rolled onto her front, allowing him access to her lower back. “Careful where you put your hands, now, I warned you there wouldn’t be no second round.”

“Duly noted,” said Podrick with a laugh, digging his thumbs in where he found another knot.

In time he became aware that Perla had nodded off next to him, breathing those deep, easy breaths that came only in sleep. _That sounds nice,_ he thought wistfully, _peaceful._ He should have been abed himself hours ago, but he knew he would be up half the night worrying about the morning. He pulled up the blankets, tucked them around her sleeping form, and tried to mold himself to her body as best he could. It was a tight squeeze; Perla’s bed was not nearly big enough for two. With a sigh, he inhaled the warm, rich scent of her wavy hair and tried to put the worries from his mind. He would devote his energy to training the boys and ladies— _maybe even Perla,_ he thought—and leave everything else in the capable hands of the queen and king. And Brienne and Sansa would have answers to all his questions on the morrow. Bran should be their concern, not his… right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Podrick's singing was one of the few things I enjoyed about season 8. Very Pippin-in-Minas-Tirith from Return of the King. So, why not incorporate it here? :)  
> I've know I've been slow to respond to comments lately, but I truly treasure each and every comment and kudos from you all. I appreciate them so much. They are excellent motivators when I am struggling to edit, or, for example, re-reading Gendry's entire page on the GoT wiki to make sure he hasn't met Podrick before! Not that I did that 😒 Next week, we have an absolute monster of a Missandei chapter.


	9. Missandei II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missandei pays a visit to the Maester. Daenerys finds a potential ally.

Daenerys’ face was mild, but her hand gripped so tight it hurt. Lucky Missandei didn’t bruise easily. She squeezed back, a soft reminder that this wasn’t like the first time.

“The babe appears healthy,” said Maester Wolkan, his left eye peering at them, huge and hideous, from behind the Myrish lens he used for examinations. “I see no reason you can’t deliver in the normal fashion. Who told you that you couldn’t have children?”

“It was…” Dany and Missandei exchanged a look. “A _maegi_ , of the Dothraki Sea,” her queen finished. “She said she studied under Maester Marwyn.”

Wolkan frowned, but there was no change to his swollen eye. “Marwyn… a genius, to be sure, but not exactly _selective_ in his choice of pupil. He would share the secrets of the Citadel with a kennelmaster, if one ever bothered to ask him.”

“So he _was_ a real Maester, then?” Daenerys’ hand relaxed a trifle.

“Oh yes. Still is, assuming he’s alive. He sailed off East a few years back, never heard from him since.” Wolkan removed his Myrish lens and tucked it away in his pocket. _And let it stay there_ , Missandei thought with a shudder. It made him look like a very intelligent lizard. “Tell me about the birth of your first child. A son, I think you said?”

“Yes, a boy—Rhaego.”

Wolkan smiled. “After your brother… a fine tribute. How long did he survive after birth?”

Missandei scowled and tried to catch Daenerys’ eye, but she was still looking up at the maester. ‘How long did he survive’—what a terrible thing to say to someone who’d lost a child. Her queen’s people could be so blunt.

“He wasn’t—he was stillborn. The _maegi_ said he’d been dead for some time.”

Wolkan clucked his tongue. “That can happen… unusual, though, so late in a pregnancy. Tell me, had you experienced any other medical events recently? Fevers, disease, poisoning? Even a prolonged period of stress—”

“My husband,” Daenerys blurted, “The _khal_. He took a serious wound and became delirious. He swooned and… did not recover.”

The maester tumbled the thought about in his head, poking at it from multiple angles. “And this was shortly before your confinement?”

“Just before, yes.”

“Well, that might account for it,” Wolkan said, though he still looked troubled. “Sometimes a sudden shock…” He bustled over to the mouth of the staircase that wound around his turret and Missandei thought he was leaving them, but he returned with a kettle, steaming in the chilly air. “Hand me that mug, will you, Missy—the clay one behind you, yes, yes.”

With a squint of distaste, Missandei passed him the mug. Everyone at Winterfell had taken to calling her “Missy” instead of her real name. She gathered that the original Missy had been a great queen of the Riverlands, or something. Daenerys tried to tell her it was harmless, a fond nickname, but she noticed her queen had not allowed anyone to call her ‘Dany’. “Here you are, Maester,” she said with as much cheer as she could manage.

“My thanks.” Wolkan unearthed a sachet from somewhere within his robes, tipped the contents into a mug and topped it off with boiling water from the kettle. To her surprise, the air filled with a bold, spicy fragrance she hadn’t smelled since childhood.

“Lacewing tea!” she exclaimed, not trying to hide her astonishment.

“The very same!” Maester Wolkan beamed. “You know it?”

“Yes, I— Red lacewing bushes are native to Naath, where I was born,” she babbled. “My mother would make us a tea from the leaves—my brothers and I, I mean—when we were sick. I haven’t thought of that since I was a girl… wherever did you find it?!”

“Oldtown, dear—and you, my queen, drink up, you’re looking pale,” he ordered Daenerys. She lifted the mug to her lips but did not do as he bid, blowing on it instead. “All the way from Bayasabhad. Only place that exports it, to my knowledge, though of course the bush also grows on Naath and along the coast of Sothoryos. I developed a taste for it at the Citadel when I was training. Would that I could purchase it in larger quantities, but it costs a pretty penny, and my stipend is, frankly, not large…”

There was a polite throat-clearing noise. “I’m sorry, _khaleesi_ ,” Missandei blushed. “Forgive me for distracting the maester.”

“No apology is necessary. But perhaps the two of you could discuss tea varietals later?”

“I’ll be glad to,” Wolkan said, either missing or choosing to ignore the sarcasm. “But to return to the matter at hand. Am I correct in thinking your husband passed without the two of you… ah… returning to the marital bed?” At Dany’s subdued nod, he went on. “And after his death… well… I’m sorry for being so indiscreet, my queen…” Now it was his turn to clear his throat, looking shifty-eyed.

“So long as you confine your questions to medical matters, you needn’t fear offending me. Speak freely,” Daenerys prompted.

“After your husband’s death, how many partners did you have?” To his credit, the maester _almost_ succeeded at keeping the judgment out of his voice.

Never one to be cowed, her queen responded with a hard stare. “Two. Jon, of course… and a paramour I had in Meereen.” Missandei wanted to giggle at the thought of what Daario’s face would look like if he heard Daenerys calling him her “paramour,” but she held it in.

“Oh, that’s… not bad,” he admitted, looking simultaneously pleased and queasy. The urge to giggle was stronger now. Dany squeezed her hand again, and she knew her friend was struggling not to laugh as well. “So. Three partners in your lifetime, and you became pregnant by two of them? Perhaps the other man is infertile, and that is why you did not conceive again,” he suggested. “I’m inclined to believe this _maegi_ simply had an ax to grind… or an _arakh_ , as it were. We’ll keep a close watch, but I don’t see any reason why there won’t be a healthy Targaryen heir in seven or eight moons.”

They waited until Maester Wolkan departed his chambers, muttering something about visiting his cousin, before bursting into laughter. “Did you see his face,” she gasped, “when you told him about Daario? ‘Not bad,’ he says, as if you’d bested him at cyvasse. Do you think he’s envious?” During her time in Westeros, she had learned of at least two fraternal orders that enforced celibacy, and could not imagine why anyone would join one of their own free will. Even slaves were allowed to enjoy sex.

“Perhaps it put him in an amorous mood,” said Dany, still giggling. “Though one wonders why he set off in search of his cousin, if that’s the case…”

It was good to laugh together. They’d had precious little opportunity. The Northerners were truly a dour people; Jon’s siblings seemed incapable of smiling. She thought she had seen Arya grin at the blacksmith, once, but couldn’t be sure, and the younger brother was just unnerving. Brandon had stared at her the whole time they were being introduced, but it wasn’t the look of a man who desired her, or worse, the slack-jawed astonishment of someone who had never seen dark skin before. She’d become well enough acquainted with _those_ looks of late. Was the boy simple? Jon might have warned them.

“Why don’t you rest now, my queen,” she suggested when their giggles had faded. “You do look pale. The babe—”

“It’s just from lack of sun,” Daenerys said, getting to her feet. “I feel better than I ever have. A _child_ , Missandei! I thought Drogon and Rhaegal would be the only ones…” They ascended the tower to the rookery, the ravens crying _caw, caw_ at every step they took. _Infernal birds._ How could Maester Wolkan sleep with them croaking at him every moment?

“Your dragons will be excellent big brothers. Very protective.” Missandei grinned. “But if we may be serious. If Drogon and Rhaegal didn’t serve to convince the North to support you, carrying Jon’s heir certainly will.”

Daenerys paused on the stairs. “Do you know, I hadn’t even thought of that yet?” A faint, indulgent smile passed across her face. “But you are right. The promise of a Stark child on the Iron Throne one day might do much to convince them.”

“Jon will be thrilled. I’m so pleased for you both.” And she was. Missandei knew she would never have children of her own, but Daenerys’ little son or daughter would be almost as good. And what a sweet child it would be! The baby would have Dany’s silvery hair and purple eyes, she thought, but maybe with Jon’s curls. For a moment she imagined their babe playing with another, a soft smiling thing with wisps of black fuzz on its head, and Grey Worm’s serious dark eyes… but the thought vanished as soon as it came.

“Thank you, ‘Missy,’” Daenerys teased. “I’ll tell him tonight. And don’t mention it to anyone else, I’d prefer to keep it quiet a bit longer.”

They left the maester’s turret for the covered bridge that led to the Bell Tower. Covered, but still many degrees colder than Wolkan’s snug rooms. They huddled together and hurried. From the yard below came the clash of steel on steel, the twang of bows, the rhythmic clacking of wooden swords as the children of the North trained at arms. “Keep your shield up,” ordered Squire Payne’s pleasant voice from somewhere below them. Whoever he was calling to must not have listened, because they heard a sharp yelp as they passed.

“I received an interesting letter from Ellery Uller this morning,” mused Daenerys, ignoring the din below. “Wolkan gave it to me before you arrived.”

“Remind me who he is, Your Grace?” There was something familiar about the name of Uller…

“He would be Prince of Dorne, with my leave.”

Dorne—then she knew. “Ellaria Sand’s father was an Uller, no?”

“Yes, which would make Ellery her half-brother. She spoke of him a few times. He has written to pledge his support and his men. All he asks in return is that I name him Prince of Dorne.”

There was always a fair clamor inside the Bell Tower, stuffed with so many more guests than it had been built to house, so Missandei did not trouble herself to lower her voice as they entered. “And you are considering this?” she half-shouted as they passed a room where a child was wailing.

“Why not? I trusted his sister, and House Uller did not participate in the recent wars. He has troops. The Martell line is extinguished, and I would need to appoint another Prince anyway. It seems a godsend—” She broke off, stunned, as a giggling boy in silver-and-gold chequy darted between them, followed by an older girl who looked like him except for her prominent frown. Daenerys stumbled and almost fell. _Where are their parents??,_ Missandei thought, helping her Queen right herself, but then remembered that they probably didn’t _have_ parents anymore.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine. I expect I will tire of telling you that.” Daenerys smiled and held out her arm. “I cannot help but worry, though,” she said in a tense, low voice, “that this is _too_ fortuitous a coincidence. We did not even reach out to him when I landed at Dragonstone.”

“Why not, if he is Ellaria’s family?”

“History,” her queen said, with a set to her jaw. “Which is why we’re going to see Tyrion.”

It turned out that the Hand occupied the nicest quarters in the castle, after Daenerys herself and the rest of the Stark family. Missandei could not think why such a small man needed such large chambers; but perhaps they correlated to the size of his ego, rather than his stature. The stairway to his rooms was bedecked with hand-shaped banners, but in the white and grey of the Stark family. She recalled that Eddard Stark had acted as the Usurper’s hand for a time; perhaps these were his old trappings of office. The happy chatter of Tyrion and a companion echoed down the stairwell as they ascended the Bell Tower.

When they reached the top, panting and out of breath, they saw he was sharing a cup of wine with his wife, the lady Sansa. There was an air of cozy good cheer about the scene. For once he was smiling, and for the first time she could see why some women found him handsome. _He won’t thank us for interrupting,_ she thought, and winced, wondering if Daenerys had scheduled an official meeting or just assumed he would be alone.

But if Tyrion was put out by their arrival, he did not show it. “My queen and her scribe,” he said in welcome. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Have you heard Sansa is hoarding the best wine in the castle?”

“Not _hoarding_ ,” his wife corrected. “I shared with you.” Her lips curved up slightly—a smile? There were many surprises today.

“All the same, we owe our Queen a taste. Will you join us?” With his short little legs, he kicked out a chair to his left, as if to welcome them.

There wasn’t a fourth seat. Daenerys noticed too. “And is Missandei to stand?” she asked in frosty tones.

“No,” Sansa shot back, frowning. “I was just leaving. It is past time I spoke to the master at arms. Tyrion, we’ll pick this up later, at the queen’s convenience?”

“You may count on it.” They both stood, Tyrion taking her arm. “Allow me to escort the lady Sansa out, I’ll be back in a trifle,” he promised. They disappeared back the way she and Daenerys had come.

Sansa’s chair was warm, an unexpected pleasure. Dany, likewise, sank into Tyrion’s vacated seat. “I’m pregnant, he can have the cold one,” she said at Missandei’s questioning glance. “It will be warm again by the time we’re done. Then Lady Stark can have him back.” She had taken to calling Sansa “Lady Stark,” though Jon’s other sister was just “Arya”. “What do you suppose they were doing in here? I thought them estranged.”

“Perhaps they’ve reconciled,” she said doubtfully. Sansa didn’t seem the sort to reconcile with anyone.

“He won’t like what I have to discuss, then.” They both snuck a taste of the wine. Very fine, as promised. Where had Sansa found it in the dead of winter, during a war? That bore thinking upon.

When Tyrion returned, it was with his Hand’s face on. “My thanks for waiting on me, and more for not finishing my drink. I have plans for it.”

“Plans with your lady wife?” suggested Daenerys with false sweetness. “What are the two of you doing together, tucked away so closely up here? One would think you almost a real couple.” Her tone was light, but there was a threat of fire behind it.

“Little and less. I’d not speak of my marriage, if it’s all the same to you.” Tyrion poured out glasses for them both, and his hand was steady.

“Oh, no wine for me,” Daenerys demurred. “I just shared a glass with Maester Wolkan.” _So she is not ready to announce her pregnancy even to him,_ Missandei thought, averting her eyes.

Her Hand was too occupied with other matters to notice anything amiss. “Truly? More for me, then,” he said, shrugging, and poured the contents of her cup into his own.

“Are you and Lady Sansa giving it another try?” she prodded, hoping to put the awkward moment behind them. “That is admirable. I know neither of you wanted the marriage, but we would have you happy. Perhaps having a wife might mellow you.”

“I said I’d rather not speak of it,” grumbled Tyrion. “I’m pleased to see her doing so well, and that’s all I’ll say.”

She and Daenerys exchanged a look over his head. Tyrion was not shy about sharing his opinions, that was certain. Odd for him to be so reticent about such an important subject as his wife. When she first heard in Dany’s letter that he was married, she assumed the woman to be dull, too inconsequential to either love or hate. But she was learning that Sansa was the sort of woman to inspire strong opinions. Why was he holding his tongue? _There’s something else at the bottom of this, but he doesn’t want to look bad in front of his queen. Someone else must wring the truth from him._

But that would keep. “I hope we didn’t interrupt. Daenerys has had some news from the south, and she’d like your opinion,” she began, in an attempt to soothe his ruffled feathers.

“News?” Tyrion’s ears perked up like a dog at a hunt. “Do tell. Has my sister done something stupid?”

“Possibly, but that’s not what I want to discuss,” Dany replied dismissively. “I’ve had a letter from Lord Uller.”

The dwarf furrowed his brow. “Not another declaration of war, I hope. The man has no reason to love Targaryens.”

“But no particular reason to hate them either, I hope. Any wrongs our houses have done one another are long in the past.”

“I’m sorry—what wrongs?” Missandei cut in. There hadn’t been much cause to study Westeros as a translator in Slaver’s Bay, and while she’d picked up a fair amount of recent history in counsel meetings, she was forever having to pester Tyrion with questions about anything further back than Robert’s Rebellion. His answers were always intelligent, his explanations succinct; but having her at his mercy gave him far too much glee. She made a mental note to speak with Jon’s maester friend about borrowing a comprehensive written history.

“When Aegon the Conqueror’s sister-wife Rhaenys was lost in Dorne, it was the Lord of Hellholt who shot her down,” Tyrion explained. “Her body was never recovered. There were rumors of torture, though nothing was conclusively proven either way. The corpse of her dragon Meraxes, however, was exposed to the harsh sun until naught remained but her bleached skeleton. The bones were left outside the castle as a reminder… or a warning.”

At the talk of fallen dragons, the queen moved her hand to her belly, unthinking. _Oh no._ She’d have to do better than that to keep her pregnancy a secret. “What happened to Lord Uller?” she asked hastily. “Surely Aegon did not let him live?”

“No,” her queen chimed in. “When he and Visenya failed to burn him out, he placed a bounty on the Lord’s head. Lord Uller was killed by some opportunist, along with the three who came after.”

Not a nice tale. “Well, I see why you are suspicious of his intentions,” she sighed. “Tyrion, he has offered to declare for Daenerys and send troops to our aid if she names him Prince of Dorne.”

Thoughtful, Tyrion sipped his wine. “I must thank Sansa for providing this vintage, I think the story has soured me on Dornish red for a time.”

Daenerys’ face was stony. “That’s your advice?”

“Even the best mind must think for a time when presented with new information. I merely tried to entertain you both while I think. The gods know we all need a laugh.”

“You may laugh on your own time. Right now I require your opinion as my Hand.”

“Understood, my queen.”

Since no one was speaking, Missandei helped herself to the goblet Tyrion had poured for her. Rich and fruity, it went down as easily as cool clean water. “How important a house is Uller? Would they be a reasonable successor to the Martells?”

“Now that’s the question.” Tyrion scratched his nose. “They could be, although the Yronwoods would be in the conversation as well. Perhaps even the Daynes… I suppose we must ask ourselves, who would my sweet sister pick as Doran’s successor? If she might just as well name this Lord Uller the new Prince, why come to us?”

“Maybe he’s written to Dany and the usurper queen both,” she suggested. “And he’ll see what he’s offered.”

“Well… there was another request made,” Daenerys confessed. “He hints quite strongly that he’d be interested in a marriage to bind himself to my cause. Not me, he knows I have wed Jon, but…” She dug in her pockets for the letter, already worn from being folded and unfolded so many times. “’I would enjoy meeting any highborn ladies who have pledged to your cause, if they would seek warmer climes when the war is over,’ he says. I have a feeling I know which two highborn ladies he means.”

“Ah.” Tyrion smiled without mirth. “So your inquiries into my marriage are for the good of the realm, and not friendly chitchat.”

“I’m afraid so,” Daenerys answered, looking as uncomfortable as Missandei had ever seen her. “I don’t want to invade your privacy. You are my friend, as well as my Hand.” She placed her own on Tyrion’s wrist. “It’s only, if Sansa is unavailable, we must needs work on Arya.”

 _And what a work that will be_ , she thought. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that she would not be parted from her blacksmith for some Dornish lord.

Tyrion’s eyes burned with wrath. “I promised you my allegiance, not an open invitation to inquire about my marital bed! I will not betray her trust so long as she is my wife, no matter what I swore to you.”

“I’d be happy to talk to her instead,” Dany retorted, “but as she can’t stand the sight of me, I did not judge that to be a productive way to spend my afternoon.”

“What’s this nonsense,” Tyrion muttered. “She needed to meet with the master-at-arms, she told you.”

“She hates me!” Even to Missandei’s sympathetic ears it sounded petulant.

“She doesn’t hate you, she is afraid you are going to take her brother south and she’ll never see him again. In light of what happened to her father, it’s not exactly an unfounded fear,” Tyrion went on, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Of course you wouldn’t keep Jon from his family, but _she_ doesn’t know that. Sansa is suspicious of everyone who’s not her blood. And some that are,” he said bitterly.

The queen’s face had clouded over in anger. Missandei wished they had not come straight here from their appointment with Wolkan. She’d been so happy a moment ago. “So long as she acknowledges me as the rightful queen, I’ll settle for that at present. In the long term, do you think you might _try_ and sway her to my cause?”

“I am already trying, my queen.”

“Excellent. You may keep your secrets. I will write to Lord Uller and say that he may meet Sansa and Arya, but promise him no more. The final choice will be theirs.” And with that, Daenerys swept from the room so suddenly that Missandei was not prepared for it. She still had a mouthful of wine.

Tyrion lifted his own goblet to his lips again. “Never get married,” he warned with a deep sigh.

All this talk of relationships made her want to steal a quiet hour with Grey Worm, but he was nowhere to be found, so she decided to visit Jon’s friend Samwell in the library instead. It wouldn’t hurt to brush up on her history if more letters like Lord Uller’s were on the way. She had a feeling Daenerys might receive more requests for favor disguised as support the longer they stayed in Westeros.

Samwell was hard at work in the shabby little library, a stub of tongue poking out of his round face as he concentrated. He was so engrossed that she thought he had not marked her entry, but he beckoned her in with a friendly wave and gave her a “one more moment” sign. “Nearly done,” he promised, eyes on his parchment. “Feel free to look around.”

There were plenty of titles to peruse, but she was more interested in the library itself. The room had burned, that much was plain. Spindly fingers of soot reached up and up the walls until they brushed each other overhead. Bright pale patches of stone, the ghosts of furniture, stood out in stark relief in many places. _How much knowledge was lost here?_ she wondered as she traced the outline of what had once been a wall hanging. The books themselves were tidy enough—those would have post-dated the fire, she thought—but the shelves beneath their spines were cracked and charred in many places. Flecks of black flaked away when she prodded the wood gently with her finger.

“Sad, isn’t it.” Sam’s hushed voice would have been more appropriate at a burial, or the bedside of a sick relative. “Jon says this whole tower used to be filled with books. Now we’re confined to the lowest floor, and it’s a struggle to fill even that. Most of these are mine,” he said and gestured around him, reddening as he did so. “Though Tyrion helped, and Lady Karstark lent us a few choice tomes from the library at Karhold.”

“What happened here?” She knew Winterfell had been sacked by the Ironborn, but even raiders would surely spare a library.

“Oh, an assassin set it ablaze as a distraction so he could sneak in and kill Brandon,” he said with a smile, the prospect of a child’s murder obviously less troublesome than burnt books.

“I’m sorry, what?!”

“Don’t look like that, it all came right in the end. His mother held off the assassin until Brandon’s direwolf could arrive, and he wasn’t harmed. And the Lady Catelyn _mostly_ regained the use of her fingers afterward, I’m told. Eventually she even came to accept that Tyrion had not ordered the murder.” He smiled a baffling smile. “Tea?”

Missandei could not bear any more beverages, or Stark family memories. If Brandon’s near death and their mother’s maiming qualified as an amusing anecdote, no wonder they were all so grim. “I only came to borrow a book, actually. I need a general history of Westeros, from the the conquest to the present day. A survey of all seven kingdoms, if possible; not just the intrigues of King’s Landing. Do you have anything like that?”

Sam furrowed his brow, which gave him the look of a rather sad bulldog. “Well, Yandel’s _World of Ice and Fire_ is the standard if you’re seeking to acquaint yourself with the lore of each kingdom… but there is a distinct pro-Baratheon bias, and it leans heavily on existing Targaryen histories authored by Gyldayn. Considering the alternatives, I would still consider it a fine source, but take care to read with a critical eye.” Sam’s plump cheeks reddened even more. “Though I’m sure I don’t need to tell someone as intelligent as yourself.”

Missandei was so pleased to get a thoughtful response from the man that she did not even mind his clumsy flirtation. “Sounds like just the thing. Do you have anything to recommend as an antidote to the bias you mentioned in this volume?”

“A few things, Missandy.” A poor attempt at pronunciation, but at least he did not call her Missy. “There are more localized histories for each kingdom. If you could narrow down what you are looking for… are you interested in a Northern history in particular?”

“Not especially, I’m just hoping for an overview so I can better serve the Queen,” she explained, gathering up the book from Sam’s arms when he located it. She followed him to a small bookcase at the back of the room. “It is embarrassing to have to keep asking Tyrion questions.”

“Oh,” he said stonily, and that stubborn pink tongue made another appearance. “Well if it’s for the _Queen_ , you might want _Fire and Blood_. She’ll enjoy that. Here.” He thumped the book into her arms with more force than perhaps was necessary.

 _Who’s put a scorpion up his tokar?_ she thought, exasperated, but then she remembered: his last name was Tarly. _Ohhh._ “This will do, thank you. I might be back for more when I finish.” She chanced a smile that he did not return. “I, ah… I heard about your father and brother. I’m sorry you did not get to say goodbye.” Her face burned. _Daenerys was justified,_ she told herself, but it was hard to feel confident in that when faced with someone who knew the Tarlys as men, rather than enemy combatants.

“You don’t need to be sorry, you had no part in it.” The chatty, convivial tone had disappeared, and when he sat, he jostled an inkwell and didn’t even notice. Missandei felt an unexpected pang of guilt for ruining his afternoon. He was one of the few people at Winterfell who had been friendly to her.

“The queen did not know they were your family. To her, they were two enemy soldiers who refused to yield.” She almost said _It wasn’t personal_ , but bit her tongue just in time. There was nothing impersonal about the death of one’s family.

“Oh, I have no doubt Father was giving her a deal of trouble, I won’t question it. But Dickon wouldn’t have. He only wanted to make Father proud. He didn’t deserve to be punished for the crimes of his father. No one does.” Sam lifted his quill again, an obvious dismissal. “Something she would do well to remember.” She took her books and left.

All in all, the morning had rather soured her on Northmen for the nonce. If not for the threat of an agitated Tyrion running the war council unchecked, she would’ve retired to the room she shared with Grey Worm for the afternoon with nothing but _The World of Ice and Fire_ and a pile of warm blankets for company. _At least the Great Hall will be warm with so many people in it._ The thought was less cheering than she had hoped. With a final longing thought of her cozy bed, she trotted off for the Great Hall, face tucked into her cloak against the storm outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said this chapter was going to be a really long one, and it was, but I ultimately decided to split the events between Missandei and another POV in Dany's camp. I'm still editing that one. If I get my act together I may post that chapter tomorrow or Monday, but that will largely depend on my mood, and THAT will largely depend on how well my fantasy football draft goes tonight. Prayer circle for me please 😬  
> The tea Wolkan gives to Dany is just my fantasy version of rooibos, I wanted something caffeine-free that would be safe for her to drink during pregnancy--nothing nefarious going on there. My personal interpretation of Mirri Maz Duur is that she's full of it, and "cursed" Dany just to make her feel bad as opposed to actually having any sort of binding power over her. I'm also sick to death of infertility storylines! So, babies for Cersei and Dany... and maybe a few others 👀  
> Next time, another POV from Dany's inner circle, and Jon Snow finally appears (10 chapters into the story...)


	10. Jorah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany hold their first council with the Northern lords, but their ideas are tough for the lords to swallow. Jorah meets his young cousin, Lyanna. A woman of the Free Folk shares some surprising news.

It was bizarre, being back here. Half a life ago he had faced Ned Stark’s wrath at Winterfell—banished forever to Essos, or the Summer Isles, or whatever place would have him. Then, at least, he’d had Lynesse. Now he was back at the site of his disgrace, with no wife to comfort him and no glories to redeem his name. Yet he still lived, which was more than Ned Stark could boast. Ned was bones now, as were his wife and heir, and many other northmen besides. The faces that now filled the Great Hall were strange to him. Lady Flint had spared him a nod of remembrance, but there were lines around her smile now, and her sooty black hair was streaked with grey. He still remembered her as a flirtatious lass of ten-and-seven. Aunt Maege’s likeness lived on only in her daughter, Lyanna. He hadn’t thought, when he was banished, that he would never see these people again, too wrapped up in his own fury and righteousness. Now he wished he had spared a glance for his father when he sailed away. Killed by his own men, Tyrion had said. It made him sick to his stomach.

Yet other times, as he strolled through Winterfell on Daenerys’ errands, it seemed that only days had passed since he’d laughed and loved here. That shadowy corner next to the burned ruins of the library, why, he had kissed Lynesse there once. When he leaned against the wall, the same constellation of sharp stones dug into his back. The table in the Great Hall where he sat still bore the marks of Brandon Stark’s axe, from when he’d gotten very drunk and played at finger-dancing like the Ironborn. Brandon, too, was gone, the nephew who bore his name a poor imitation of the fearless man he’d fought beside. Jorah swigged from his horn of ale and offered up a prayer for Brandon Stark, and Maege, and Lynesse, too, if she was dead. He hoped not. She had deserved better than him.

As the Great Hall began to fill for the afternoon’s war council, he was struck again by how young his companions were. _All the great lords of the north, and hardly a wrinkle among us._ Youth held its own benefits. He had seen Daenerys triumph over great adversity enough times to have faith in that. But youth could also be reckless, something he knew only too well from experience. Ser Davos’ presence was a comfort, and Lord Royce’s, but too many of those around him in the hall had fewer than thirty name days. Lyanna couldn’t be more than five-and-ten. _Yet already ruling Bear Island with a firm hand, if half of what I hear is true._

The room quieted as his _khaleesi_ and the Stark children emerged from the narrow gallery behind the dais, the new couple arm-in-arm and Arya pushing Bran’s chair. Jon was unusually solicitious of his queen, making certain she was settled and comfortable before taking a seat himself. Jorah was pleased to see him so respectful, despite the initial rush of ill feeling he still got whenever he saw Daenerys with another man. Maybe his Queen had chosen her spouse wisely, after all.

“My good lords and ladies,” Jon began. “I’ve called you all here so we can establish a plan to feed and care for the people of the North while we fight our common enemy. The Umbers’ smallfolk, plus the remainder of the Night’s Watch and the Free Folk who have agreed to join us, number in the hundreds. Wintertown holds their number again, and perhaps more. Not to mention the fighting men our Queen has pledged to our cause.” There was a stir of murmurs at this, not all positive. “After what happened at the Last Hearth, we have to assume that the Night King and his dragon may attack another castle or holdfast. We have scouts riding north, east, and west at all hours of the day and night, but many of the great families do not have the ability to do the same. Therefore I suggest we summon the smallfolk of Karhold, Deepwood Motte, and Hornwood to join us—”

A storm of grumbling and curses broke out before Jon could finish. “You can’t feed the people we have now!” objected a man that Jorah did not recognize. Privately, he agreed, and Daenery’s carefully blank expression said that she did, too. They had been through this already in the Red Waste, and though he understood Jon’s instinct to protect his people, it simply wasn’t wise. You couldn’t help everyone. Those smallfolk would do better to flee south, if they were afraid… or perhaps Bear Island. Hmm. There might be something in that.

“The Glovers still have fighting men left to them, the Hornwoods aided us in exterminating the Boltons, and Karhold can offer us ships,” Jon argued.

“What use are ships against the Night King? Does he command an army of whales?” scoffed the young man who’d spoken before, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. He had the thick neck of the Tallharts, but his eyes were those of a thief or a pirate, with none of the deceased Lord Helman’s wisdom.

“You may find yourself glad of those ships if we need to flee,” suggested Davos from his quiet corner. “Defeating the Night King is no certain thing.”

“Then we will die in the attempt,” Tallhart thundered, standing. “Where would we go? Skagos?” He scoffed. “Bear Island? Bear Island can barely support itself—meaning no disrespect, my lady.” He nodded at Lyanna, but spared Jorah no such courtesy. _Perhaps he doesn’t recognize me._ “For me and my house, we are done running. We will make our stand here. If Lady Alys wants to lend her sword to our cause, so be it. But we cannot take her people, too.” Feeling everyone’s eyes on him, he shrank back into his chair. “With your leave,” he muttered to Jon.

“I am King in the _North_ , I remind you,” Jon said steadily. “That includes all the lands from the Wall to the Neck, and everyone who dwells there. I have a duty to protect our people from what we are facing. They’ll need to work, and fight, yes, but we can’t turn anyone away.”

“No one doubts the necessity of protecting the North, Your Grace.” Lady Flint interjected herself into the argument brewing between Jon and the rash Tallhart man. She had seen more winters than either of them, and more hardships, if her lined faced was anything to go by. “But I think we are all wondering why these wildlings have joined us here at Winterfell. The drain on our resources—”

“The Free Folk have supported Jon for longer than anyone.” Tormund rose from his seat near the dais, drawing himself up to his full and imposing height. “We stood with him at Hardhome and the battle of Winterfell. Where were you?”

“At home,” Lady Flint declared, also standing. The top of her head would barely brush Tormund’s chin if they stood side-by-side. _Though I do not think they will stand together now, or ever._ “My sex may have prevented me from taking up arms myself, but I lost a son in service to the Starks. They are my own kin, through my great-aunt. House Flint has always stood beside the Starks, whether Eddard or Robb or Jon! And we always will! I ask you, where were your people when the Ironborn put our lands to the torch? Where were your people when the lions slaughtered us at the Red Wedding? I do not recall wildling raiders sweeping down from the North to aid us—”

“The Free Folk do not concern themselves with the affairs of kneelers,” Tormund spat.

“Yet you presume to rely upon our hospitality!”

“Tormund, Lyessa—please,” Jon pleaded, urging them both to sit. Lady Flint did so at once; Tormund, reluctantly. He was obviously spoiling for a fight. “Our history does not matter. This is about _survival_. Our foe will not distinguish between Free Folk and Westerosi, smallfolk and highborns. In their eyes, we are meat. We will stand a better chance if we all work together. My queen has come from across the Narrow Sea with her own people, and they stand united in the defense of the North. Will you?”

A rousing speech, but he did not appreciate Jon reminding everyone of his queen’s foreign upbringing. As if the faces of the Dothraki did not do that every day. He snuck a look at Daenerys, who had also noticed the slight—unintentional on Jon’s part, surely. Or at least his _khaleesi_ would think so.

“We stand with the North,” Daenerys confirmed. “You have given us a warm welcome—” Missandei, seated on his left, huffed quietly, “—so I see no reason why we should not embrace your other people similarly. Jon told me once that northerners are loyal to kith and kin to their last breath. What are the Karstarks, but your kin of old? What are the crannogmen, but your cousins to the south?” There was a stir of agreement at this. “And the Free Folk are only your…. _very_ distant cousins.” Lady Flint scoffed at this, as did the Tallhart man and Lord Manderly at the foot of his table, but Lyanna was listening intently. “You are all blood of the First Men,” Daenerys continued, and her voice grew stronger when several of those in attendance thumped their mugs on the table in support. “Those men would think us a poor example if petty squabbles kept us from fighting our true enemy.” More thumping. “Lady Flint, you say you lost a son at the Twins. Tormund also lost family, struck down protecting his home from wights. Lord Royce—your son was one of the first to fall to the walking undead, beyond the Wall.” Royce nodded slowly. “Well, I have also lost a child to the Others. Not a child of my body—” The queen broke off suddenly, and put a hand to her throat. Jorah knew she was thinking of Rhaego. “—but one of my dragons. I saw him fall with my own eyes. I was born in the Narrow Sea, not Winterfell or White Harbor or Barrowton, but I have given as much to this cause as any of you.” Jorah sucked in a breath—he was not at all sure that his people would consider Viserion as great a loss as their own children. “We all want vengeance. For your sons, and daughters. For my dragon. For your father, Jon, and your brothers. And we will have it! Together!”

A tense silence followed, and Missandei clutched at her skirts next to him. For one anxious moment Jorah was sure that fighting would break out again. The _khaleesi_ ’s speeches had sounded much more convincing in the harsh tones of the Dothraki. But after a moment, Maege’s daughter— _Lady Mormont,_ he reminded himself—nodded. “I trust Jon Snow, and this is the path he has chosen. And the queen he has chosen, too. If we did not trust him to decide what’s best, why did we proclaim him our King?” His little cousin looked around the circle, keen-eyed, searching for any hints of doubt. “My queen, you have the full support of Bear Island. My men will aid you if escorts to Deepwood Motte are needed, they know us well.”

“Thank you, Lady Mormont,” Jon said, not without a trace of relief. “Is there anyone willing to act as envoy to the Karstarks or Hornwoods?”

“I’ll go,” offered a grizzled old greybeard, leaning on his cane for assistance to stand. The voice was that of old Myrlon Lake, who had already been elderly when Jorah left the North. “Though I’ll need someone more spry to ride with me, hehe. I’m not as young as I was. Alys is my great-niece on her mother’s side, she’ll listen to sense, if it comes from the right person.”

The matter of bringing the other great Northern houses into the fold was settled quite simply, after that. Compared to the threat of the wildlings, rivalries with the other great houses seemed unimportant.

Yet all through the meeting, Jorah could not help but feel they were stepping into the Night King’s trap. Here they were, quarreling over who would camp where and whether or not they could trust House Thus-and-such and rehashing tiffs that had grown stale when he was a boy, while the army of the dead descended upon them. Couldn’t they see none of this was important?? As Lord Manderly started up with yet another ponderous “Well, what you’re forgetting is that…,” Jorah shifted in his chair, unable to sit through any more speechifying yet powerless to stop it.

Missandei was growing restive as well, he noted, her backbone as straight as always but her hands clenched into fists among the folds of her gown. “Is _this_ why we crossed the Narrow Sea and marched up into these godforsaken lands??” she hissed to him. “To listen to a fat man spout his every thought and fancy until we die of old age?”

He chuckled, drawing a withering look from Lady Flint. “Lord Manderly is a proud man from an old house, and feels he has earned the right to have his moment,” he murmured, allowing his shoulders to relax. Oddly, Missandei’s irritation calmed him. “Whether or not he has anything of worth to add to the discussion. But this is just so much bluster, he’s not really contradicting anything that’s been presented. Just watch, he’ll eventually wind down, and then the Norrey and the Liddle will give their speeches, and Jon and the _khaleesi_ will go on and do what they’ve already decided upon anyway.”

“Why speak if they have nothing to say?” she grumbled, but Jorah was proven correct when Lord Manderly heaved himself into his chair, only for Brandon Norrey to take up in his stead.

It was only later, when the meeting drew to its disappointing conclusion and the great lords had left in pursuit of their own pastimes, that he found out the cause of Missandei’s wrath. “I don’t understand,” she started, stooping to lift two large and heavy tomes from where they rested beneath her seat, “Why Daenerys agreed to such a large meeting. When we planned on Dragonstone, there were perhaps ten people in the room. Even that seemed excessive at times.” Her eyes flickered away and Jorah suspected she was remembering Olenna Tyrell.

“That is more traditional,” he agreed, and lifted one of the books off the stack. They went out of the hall and into the yard, where a crowd gathered in anticipation of dinner. “But Ned Stark fostered more of a sense of community here in the North. He did not always agree with his bannermen, or do as they asked, but gave them the courtesy of listening to their woes. They expect the same of Jon. I think it’s wise for him to continue that.”

A kitchen girl hurried by, bearing a steaming covered tray of what smelled like beets. Snowflakes melted onto the hot metal and ran down the sides, at last dripping to the frozen mud of the yard. “ _She_ wasn’t in the meeting,” Missandei noted. “So Jon isn’t really listening to everyone, is he? Who speaks for her?”

“The steward,” Jorah replied, but with unease. In truth there was no acting steward at Winterfell anymore. Vayon Poole had never been replaced, and the Bolton’s steward had long since fled, the gods knew where. Sansa and Arya managed his duties between the two of them, now, but he didn’t think Missandei would like to hear that. “Could I offer my assistance with these books? Where are your rooms?”

She sighed to let him know she knew what he was doing, but did not argue. “I can manage once we’re inside out of the snow and ice… yes, just over here, Grey Worm and I are in the Great Keep.”

Jorah started. The Great Keep was reserved for Starks. “That’s quite an honor,” he said finally. His own room was in the Bell Tower, and too near Tyrion’s for his liking.

“Yes, Daenerys said our room used to belong to Lady Catelyn,” she said in a distracted sort of way. He soon saw why, but not soon enough; there was a great wheel rut in the yard, full of chilly water and covered with a scrim of ice. He grimaced as his boot plunged into the hole. “The chamber is so warm I almost feel at home. I don’t know anything else about the woman, but she had good taste, I’ll say that for her.”

“That she did,” he agreed. “Maybe I’ll see the two of you at dinner?” Any other day he would’ve left her and Grey Worm to enjoy the little time they had alone together, but on this night he welcomed any company that would have him. He dreaded to face the Northmen alone.

“I don’t think so, I’d like to make some headway on my book before bed, and I think Maester Tarly would have my head if I get crumbs on it.” Missandei removed _Fire and Blood_ from his arms at the entryway to the Bell Tower. “I’ll see you on the morrow.”

“On the morrow,” he agreed, and set off again across the frozen yard. Maybe there would be time to dry his boots in the Great Hall before dinner.

“And we’re not done with our conversation,” she shouted after him, grinning.

He found Qhono on his way back to the Hall, cursing in Dothraki at the same puddle he’d just stepped in. “I do not like all this ice,” the man groused, kicking the air to rid his boot of excess water. A young boy with a great mass of puffy brown curls laughed to see it, but scampered away at Qhono’s glare. “Such a place is not suitable for men. I say, let the Others have these lands. The Great Grass Sea is big enough for us all.”

The Great Grass Sea did sound tempting right about now, with its blazing sun and endless open prairies. For a moment he imagined a life where Daenerys never went to Qarth, and they still rode through the grasses together. “Try and imagine you are there,” he suggested. “You might feel warmer.” He did.

Daenerys, Jon, and his sister Sansa had agreed that with so many important lords and ladies in attendance, there would be a revolving High Table. That way, no one would feel slighted, and perhaps different factions would become fond of each other, in time. This evening he and his Dothraki friend supped with the Lady Arya, a woods witch from the Haunted Forest (revered among the Free Folk, according to Tormund,) and cousin Lyanna. _Qhono will be good company, at least._ They always got on well together. He wished he could say the same of his cousin. She was a suspicious little thing, all angles and points, but that came of growing up a child of impoverished Bear Island. Had he ever been like that?

Jorah filled his plate with a cut of salmon, buttered mushrooms, black bread, and a boiled egg, and turned to Qhono. “I haven’t spent much time with you since we left Dragonstone,” he murmured in Dothraki, “What do you think of the North?”

Qhono frowned as he bit into his bacon. “Very cold,” he stated. _As if that were news._ “And not enough horse meat. I don’t like all this pig. Filthy creatures.”

Jorah laughed. “Filthy, maybe, but tasty. I grew up eating this, and I’m no worse off.”

“And what are these?” Qhono complained, spearing a winter radish with his knife. “These don’t grow in the Grass Sea. Missandei says they are vegetables, but they’re not green. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. They look like eyes. I think my plate is watching me.”

“They’re called ‘radishes,’” Jorah offered. “I don’t like them much either, but they’re safe to eat.”

“Rad-eesh,” Qhono repeated. Across from them, Lyanna giggled behind her hand. “What are you laughing at, child?” Qhono grumbled.

Jorah translated. “Qhono wants to know what’s so funny,” he said to his cousin. “He hasn’t seen radishes before.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow, and the sight took him right back to his childhood, being scolded by Maege. They were of an age, or close enough to make no matter; but she enjoyed reminding him that she was his aunt and superior. “I wish I hadn’t seen them, either. The cook loves them well, she’s served them every day for as long as I’ve been here.”

Not the warmest greeting from his long-lost cousin, but better than he might rightfully expect. “He says he would prefer horsemeat.”

“Well, that’s where we part ways. Nothing finer than crispy bacon, except maybe some nice pigeon in gravy.” Lyanna crunched the bacon in question thoughtfully. “Cousin, could you ask this… Kuono—”

“Qhono.”

“Very well. Ask him to tell me about his weapon, I’ve never seen a curved blade like that before, except in pictures. I think it’s called an _arakh_?”

At this word, Qhono’s eyes shone and he looked at Lyanna with new appreciation. “ _Arakh_!” he repeated, brandishing his blade for her. Lyanna smiled, but a frisson of fright went around the table. “Gods be good,” breathed the woods witch, clutching her chest, and Arya pulled out her own knife, quick as a hare. Qhono shamefacedly returned his _arakh_ to his hip. “I sorry,” he apologized, using the few of the words of the Common Tongue he had. “No fight, no fight.”

Jorah held up his hands. “He didn’t mean to alarm anyone, Lady Mormont just asked to see his weapon,” he assured the table in a loud voice. Daenerys smirked at him from her seat in the middle of the table. A few of the more righteous-looking lords around them still muttered, but it came to nothing, the culinary delights before them taking precedence.

“I didn’t mean to scare the women,” Qhono muttered to him. “That one across from us is made of sterner stuff, at least.”

“That’s my cousin,” said Jorah, surprised at the swell of pride he felt. “She should be stern.”

“Blood of your blood?” Qhono looked interested. “What is her name?”

“Lyanna,” he said, and immediately better of it. Lyanna was five-and-ten, or thereabouts, and Dothraki considered that old enough for wedding and bedding. “She’s not ready for marriage, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he warned.

“Don’t fear, our Queen warned us that women of the Sunset Kingdoms marry late. But in a few years…” Qhono smiled wickedly.

“What does he say, cousin?” Lyanna asked, pushing her pease around her plate.

“Ah—he is impressed by your knowledge of weaponry,” he fibbed.

“Well.” Lyanna grinned, her smugness ill-concealed. “I did make a study of Essosi military tradition. My Maester spent some time in the Stepstones, you know, and often had occasion in his youth to fight pirates of the Sunset Sea—”

“Have _you_ ever fought pirates, young lady?” broke in the woods witch. “You’ll learn more from one scrap with them than from any old man with a shiny collar.”

“No,” Lyanna muttered. “But I saw an Ironborn raid once—”

“Euron’s or Yara’s Ironborn?” interjected Lady Arya.

“Balon’s.”

“He the one what fell off the bridge?” cackled the woods witch. “Not much of a lord, if he can’t walk about in his own castle.”

“I heard he was pushed—”

“What is she saying?” urged Qhono, eyes still fixed on his little cousin.

Jorah sighed. It had been too long a day for this much conversation. Wistfully, he thought back to the long, silent days he’d spent on the Smoking Sea. He’d had Tyrion for company, then, but a good smack had always served to quieten him for a while. Would that he had that option now. He cracked open a boiled egg on the side of the table, imagining it was Tyrion’s head.

“Cousin Jorah.” Lyanna lifted her gaze from her fried bread to meet his eye at last.

He peeled a long strip of shell off the side of his egg. “Yes?”

“Would you introduce me to your Dothraki friend?” Jorah raised an eyebrow. “A lady should be gracious to foreign envoys,” she protested, but he did not like the avid way she was looking at Qhono. Lynesse had worked her magic on him when she was around Lyanna’s age, he recalled.

“Why not, I don’t believe Qhono has been formally introduced to any of you,” he agreed, purposefully misunderstanding her. “Everyone, this is Qhono, one of the dearest of our Queen’s supporters. He saw her through the Great Grass Sea and fought for her at the Battle of the Goldroad. He crossed the Narrow Sea to help her win her throne, one of the first Dothraki in history to do so.” Qhono’s expression betrayed his confusion. “I’m introducing you,” he noted in Dothraki, and he nodded.

“Well met, Qhono. “We’re happy to have you.” “Pleased.” A murmur of appreciation rippled around the table.

“And this is Lady Arya, our Queen’s husband’s sister,” he continued in Dothraki, gesturing at the watchful girl. “She is not for marrying, either. The older lady is a wildling, I don’t know her name. She is said to be a woods witch, like a _maegi_ , but don’t let that scare you, it means something different here. Likely she only prepares herbal teas and helps the women in childbirth. And this, of course, is my cousin. She’s the lady of Bear Island. Sort of like a _khal_ , but she does not lead her troops into battle… that I know of.” A lady of such a minor holding was a poor comparison to a _khal_ , but he did not know what else to call her.

“So young, and already a _khal_?” Qhono looked impressed. “She is younger even than the _khaleesi_. You sunset people shake hands when you meet, yes?”

“Yes.”

Qhono extended his hand to Lyanna. To his credit, he did not leer or wink at her. “Lyanna the Andal,” he said haltingly, in the Common Tongue.

Her little nose wrinkled as she smiled. “Qhono. Well met.” Gods be good. He wondered if Aunt Maege would be impressed with her daughter’s boldness, or horrified.

Jorah dug his thumbnail under the eggshell, and removed another shard. Peeling an egg should not be so difficult. Even he knew that adding a bit of vinegar to the boiling water helped the shell to come off, and he had rarely done more than roast the odd piece of game over a fire. Where had the Starks found this cook? Had all the good ones been killed in the war?

A small piece of eggshell went flying and landed on the woods witch’s arm. “My apologies,” he offered, brushing it away. “My hands are more clumsy than they used to be.” He wiggled his gloved fingers at her in explanation. Jorah wore gloves at all times now, even at table. Anyone who asked would hear that he had been spoiled by the warm temperatures of Essos for too long, but his greyscale scars would itch when he said it. Few would believe that his afflication was gone for good. Better not to bring it up.

“I’ve been hit by worse things than eggs,” the crone said, bored. She’d not had much more success with her own egg, he saw, and was now making her way through a pile of the buttered radishes that had so offended Qhono.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” he said. “My name is S— Jorah.” ‘Ser’ would not impress a wildling. “Lately of Meereen, though I call Bear Island home.”

“That old rock? I never knew why it was called that, bears are much more common in the Haunted Forest.” Deep in thought, she chewed her radishes. “Good rabbit hunting, though.”

“You’ve visited?”

“Well, I’ve been there, though I don’t recall us being invited. The Great Walrus used to raid there, when I was young. It happens I went with him a few times.”

“You’re from the Frozen Shore, then.” Jorah’s nurse had chilled his blood with bedtime stories of Thenns and Hornfoots when he was a boy, but the folk of the Frozen Shore had always been too present a danger to jest about, even in cautionary tales. He’d seen much and more of the world since then, though, and this wizened old woman looked no more frightful than his nurse had.

She shrugged. “I was. I went a-wandering meself, when I was no older than this girl here.”

Arya glanced up from her bacon, looking quite offended. “I’m no girl.”

“You’ve less than thirty name days, you’re a girl.” Her tone warned that she would brook no argument. “And your man here, he’s still a strapping young thing, no matter what he says about his hands getting stiff. Don’t argue with Mother Mole, I’ve seen more winters than both of you combined.”

“Mother _Mole_?” Lyanna asked incredulously. “Is that your real name?”

“I’ll answer to it, and that’s all you need know.”

Jorah pursed his lips and looked down at his plate, which had never before seemed so interesting. The egg was mostly free of shell now, he saw, and he decided to take his chances with it. “Well met, Mother Mole,” he said as he halved his boiled egg with a dagger. “I hope we can set aside our differences—”

“Cousin, your egg!” Lyanna exclaimed. He looked down at his meal. Two dull golden yolks stared back at him, where he had expected one.

Mother Mole sniffed and pulled his plate closer to examine it. “Good fortune to you, Jorah. An egg with two yolks means you can expect twins in your future.”

Twins? Cersei would sooner give up her crown and join the Silent Sisters than him father a child, let alone two. _This woman may have more winters, but she took leave of her wits during one of them._

“That’s not what my Maester told me,” Lyanna argued, taking her own peek at his plate. “An egg with two yolks means you are about to start a new life.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “All it means is that he gets an extra helping of protein.”

Jorah pushed back from the table—suddenly he had no appetite. “If you’ll all excuse me,” he muttered, and did not wait for a reply.

In his room, Jorah found only ashes. He sighed and picked up the poker, prodding the few glowing embers back to life. There came again a curious sense of the past weaving itself smoothly and seamlessly into his present; he could not be sure these were the same chambers he’d stayed in as a newlywed, but the soot stain above the hearth looked more familiar than it had any right to. His hand seemed to know the shape of the twisted iron poker. Even the sense that he had disappointed a woman in some small and unfathomable way came flooding back to him, as sharp and sudden as the smell of a bad egg when cracked. This time it was his cousin, not his wife, who found fault with him, but the sensation was the same. All at once he felt as old as he’d pretended to Mother Mole.

As if summoned by magic, the old crone appeared as he coaxed the flames back to life. There was no word of greeting, nor the sound of footsteps, she just appeared on feet as silent as Ghost’s and waited at his side until he became aware of it. “Is there something that cannot wait until morning?” he asked, when it became clear she had not merely taken a wrong turn after dinner.

“I was always told you lordlings had a way with words. ‘Let a kneeler speak his piece, and he’ll convince you down is up,’ mother always said, ‘So take care you don’t let him speak before you slit his throat.’ Seems she was wrong. You’re just as rude as any Free Folk I ever met.” Mother Mole settled herself into the seat before the fire, with every indication that she intended to stay a while. “Sit.”

Why not? Jorah’s bones felt near as weary as hers. “If I’m such poor company, you may feel free to leave me at any time. You know where to find the door.” The cold stone floor would be chilly as his tone, so he chose the thin mattress for his seat.

“There’s that silver tongue I heard tell of.” There was a gargling sound that might have been a chuckle. “Couldn’t spare any beer, could you?”

“I don’t keep alcohol in my rooms,” he explained stiffly. _Lest it bring me dreams of days gone by._

“Oho! They didn’t tell me you were a septon as well.”

Jorah gritted his teeth. _Did Tyrion send her as a jape?_ It seemed like just the sort of queer thing he might find amusing, now he was back in Westeros among friends and secure in their queen’s affections. Not for the first time, he marveled that Tyrion had managed to survive so long without someone shortening him by a head.

“It grows late, and I have an early morning…” he explained as patiently as he could.

“You can stop there, I know when I’m not wanted.” But Mother Mole made no move to go, staring into the fire like a woman hypnotized. “I ought to leave you in the dark, I should, if only you weren’t kin to Maege.”

“You… knew my aunt?” _Stranger and stranger,_ he thought.

“’Knew’ is a strong word. Let’s say, respected. Didn’t like her much—killed too many of my men—but she was fierce and strong, and that’s rare enough. She’d have been a fine spearwife, if born to the Free Folk.”

That was true enough. “Perhaps you would have been a great lady, if born to the nobility.”

“Ha!” Mother Mole rasped again, a rusty chuckle clearly discernable among the phlegm this time. “Would that my Jervis was alive to hear that.”

“Your husband?” She nodded. “Ah. I am a widower, too, Mother.” _Of a sort._

“I know you are. I see her at your side now, a girl with yellow hair and eyes the color of the sea. She is clad in silks as fine as the Queen’s, but there are tears on her cheeks.”

The fire danced before them, the new log catching at last. The flames leapt high in victory. Jorah could not say why he found it so diverting. _This is foolishness,_ he thought, _Lynesse was young and healthy. She will be safe in Lys. This mad old woman sees a single man in his fifties, and makes an educated guess._ But golden hair was uncommon in the North, and he knew it.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Perhaps you’ll listen to what I have to say, then. The queen won’t, or Lord Snow—they are too young to pay heed to an old woman. But you have seen more of the world than either of them. You will understand, if anyone will.”

Jorah swallowed. “Do you claim to have the gift of prophecy?” So too did Mirri Maz Duur, but her brand of prophecy had been little more than a talent for vengeance and a bit of luck.

“Prophecy, the second sight… call it what you will. I dream things, sometimes, and wise men listen. I saw the Cold Gods laying waste to my people. I saw too that Hardhome would be our salvation. And we were saved, though not in the way I’d have guessed. Still, those who listened and followed me have no cause for complaint.” She shrugged. “I’ve dreamed things about this place, too. Thought you might be interested. But if you’d prefer I found the door, it’s no skin off my hide…”

“I will listen,” he said gravely. _And the khaleesi can sort it out._ His kind weren’t cut out for prophecy—no one predicted great things for the bears of the woods—but his queen had the blood of Daenys the Dreamer in her. _Mayhaps she can sort the diamonds from the chaff._

“Very well, I shall tell you. In my dream, I saw two dragons—”

“Drogon and Rhaegal,” he supplied.

“I don’t know their names,” she snapped. “Two dragons circling a great keep, as all the creatures of field and stream and sea pay them court. Tall men and dancing maidens, wolves and stags and bears, fishes and lions, falcons and vultures and crows—all bow before the dragons.”

The meaning of that was simple enough even for him to parse—any man or woman of Westeros would bend the knee when faced with Drogon or Rhaegal, if they had the wits the gods gave their sigils. And of course a woman of the Frozen Shore would be familiar enough with the Mormonts to know their sigil. _Such an inspiring prediction!_ He nearly rolled his eyes, then reminded himself he was too old for such discourtesy. “Mother…”

“I’m not finished.” She rearranged her shawl in a series of delicate, tidy movements, then continued. “That is not to say all of the world’s creatures are pleased with such an arrangement. Hunters circle the dragons night and day, arrows poised for the right moment to strike. Who can say if their aim will be true? The gods have not seen fit to give me the answer. Maybe it will come, in time.”

Naturally the woman would not commit herself to anything more definitive than that. Depending on who she’d spoken to at Winterfell, she might even be aware of Cersei’s scorpions. “I’ll share this with the queen,” he agreed, _along with my own interpretation._ “Have you dreamed anything else?”

“I have seen one such archer dragged beneath the sea by a kraken,” said Mother Mole offhandedly. “But others spring up in its place. I have seen a lion roaring its pride and assurance, ignorant of the fish about to swallow it whole. I have seen Winterfell rebuilt—its two razed towers growing from piles of ruined bricks within its walls. I have seen a frightened girl with a cold and beautiful face fleeing an enemy, but she cannot turn her neck to see the assassin behind her, and she weeps. And last, I have seen the trees of the Haunted Forest again, and a sunrise over the Wall.”

Krakens, lions, the towers of Winterfell… all things the average wildling could know about. The beautiful girl could only be Daenerys, and the sunrise over the Haunted Forest was no more than an old woman’s wishful thinking and longing for home. _Does she really believe this load of dross?_ She looked earnest enough, and she had asked nothing from him in exchange for her dreams. But wiser men had convinced themselves of dafter things before, when it served them.

“You have given me much to think about,” he said finally. “I confess I don’t put much store in visions and dreams, as you may have guessed. But I will share everything with the queen nonetheless. She is more… _receptive_ to such things.”

At last Mother Mole leaned forward, fiddling with her shawl again. It looked as though she might gather herself to leave, in the next five or ten minutes. “I know you don’t believe me. You don’t need to. I have seen little of your future, Jorah Mormont, so there is naught to warn you of. Pass my words on to your _khaleesi_ and I will be well pleased.”

 _Khaleesi…_ A shiver ran up his spine. Had anyone called her that while they’d been at Winterfell? “Can I escort you to your own rooms, Mother?”

“No,” she said, and availed herself of his offered arm. “I’m not so old as to get lost. But I’ll take beer, if you’ve got any. Have you?”

“I don’t keep alcohol in my rooms, remember? We talked about this.”

“Did we?” She stood slowly, shaking her heads. “I’ll visit the kitchens, then.” She shook off Jorah’s arm and hobbled her way to the door. A draft of chilly air rushed in as she took her leave.

“Mother,” he asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. “What happens to the dragons?”

“I don’t know,” said Mother Mole, and paused to think. “They don’t pay much attention to the things around them, dragons. They only want to be free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse this chapter, Jorah is extremely difficult to write for. I haven't found his "voice" yet, but this is as good as it's going to get if I still planned to post today.  
> Book readers will know that Mother Mole is the woods witch who had visions of rescue at Hardhome, and led thousands of wildlings there for salvation. I don't think she is mentioned in the show, but I like to imagine she exists and made it to safety at Winterfell. As you may have guessed, she MIGHT be a little bit important going forward, so I wanted to give some background about who she is.  
> Next week, we check in with a dolorous old friend who has been missing for several chapters.


	11. The Lord Commander II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edd has a religious experience. A man of the Night's Watch gets a much-deserved promotion.

He was burning. As he and Lord Umber tarried on the kingsroad, confident in their escape, Viserion had lain in wait, circling the forest and watching for any sign of life. Edd did not remember the dragon catching them up. There had been a reckless gallop through the night, long meandering days in the wolfswood, fear and then boredom and then fear again, as the boy weakened with still no break in the walls of hawthorn and fir around them. All the while the nagging feeling that they were going the wrong way dwelled in the back of his mind. _Jon used to go hunting in the wolfswood, so it must be close to Winterfell… right?_ It was the last cruel trick of the Night King, allowing them to drift within reach of safety before his final attack.

Now, flames licked at his skin, devoured his flesh, as he lay immobile, held down by invisible ropes or straps. It was less painful than he imagined; in fact, he felt nothing but a searing heat in his extremities. His feet were the first to go. He opened his mouth to cry for mercy, but couldn’t draw enough breath into his stifling lungs. All that escaped him was a hoarse cough. _I’m going to die._ A tear slid down his cheek and he realized he was crying. He didn’t want to go like this. He always thought he’d live to a ripe old age out of pure spite, and die with a final wry complaint on his lips. But he should have known better; it would be just the thing, for him to die alone, forgotten, and unable to offer a final prayer to the Mother. _I couldn’t even save the boy._ He hoped Lord Umber had had a quick death.

As if summoned by his coughing to bear witness to his last breath, a figure swam out of the flames. Clad all in black, with a chain of metal wound around its neck, Edd was seized by a sudden recognition. Maester Aemon! But no, this man was too young, and thicker through the middle. It wasn’t, couldn’t be, his kindly old friend.

Whoever it was, he looked upon Edd with a mournful air. “Be still, my lord, it will be over soon,” he soothed. His voice seemed to come from the other end of a long tunnel. Edd struggled to focus his tired eyes, but the image of the Maester jumped and shifted before him, one moment clear as dawn, the next obscured by a shimmer of heat. “Wait,” he rasped, he had so many questions. If he was dying, where was his mother to greet him? Where were his friends who’d fallen at the Fist of the First Men, at Castle Black? It was cruel that this nameless Maester should be the one to usher him to the land of death, when so many people he’d loved had gone before him— _oh_. This was not a Maester at all. His stomach filled with a dread that had nothing to do with the fire consuming him.

The man in black was tipping his head back, pouring cool water down his throat. He sputtered and spat some of the water back at him, but surprisingly, the Maester smiled at this, as if Edd had performed a rather clever trick. “Try and keep this down,” he cautioned, “and I’ll be back for you soon.” _No,_ he thought, _don’t come back, leave me,_ but no one could hear his frantic thoughts.

The Stranger smiled sadly, and left him. Exhausted by his terror, Edd passed out.

He flickered in and out of consciousness. The Stranger didn’t return, not yet, but he saw the other gods. It seemed he would have to endure a whole grim parade of the Seven before he would be left in peace. The Mother had visited, wearing Gilly’s face, and wiped his brow with a cool wet cloth. It was a gift unlooked-for to see her friendly face again, and the flames had drowsed for a moment. His lips moved to thank her, but no sound came out. Later, the Warrior in Tormund’s skin sat by his bed and spoke quiet words that he could not understand. It was almost like having his friend back for real, although his face was sadder and more grave than he had ever seen it. “Hang on,” the Warrior had said, “Be strong, little crow.” It took many moments for the meaning to sink in. He felt he could drift away then. Viserion’s fire must be blowing itself out by now—the warmth was almost comforting, instead of painful.

He heard a voice from his childhood. “Tollett,” it said, “Can you hear me?” He could, and that would have to be enough. Darkness took him. When he woke, the Maiden was watching over him. It was very dim—when had the flames gone out?—and he could only see the outlines of her face through the gloom. She was every bit as beautiful as Sansa had been in life, but for once her gentle gaze was focused on him. _That_ had not happened while he was alive. She was saying something, but it didn’t seem important—he was content to simply watch her lips move. _I wish I had met her again._ He wished he’d done a lot of things.

The Maiden glanced over her shoulder, roused by a sudden noise. A door was opening. “He’s coming,” she said softly, and patted his hand. She rose, and the Stranger took her place. _Why. Why does he have to take me, why can’t one of the others be with me…_ His throat clenched, but he was determined not to show his fear. The Father, his father, was waiting. He would not go to death crying like a babe. He closed his eyes.

The cheerful sound of trickling water woke him from sleep. It reminded him of boyish things—the stream of meltwater that ran past his home, the patter of rain on the roof, his mother filling the rusty washtub for his bath. He smiled faintly. If this was death, it was not so bad; to dwell forever in happier times. It would be sweet to see the Vale again.

He turned his face to look for his mother, and found that the noise was Tormund using the chamber pot. He was still in the unfamiliar room where the Seven had visited him, not home at all, and it was much colder than the afterlife had any right to be. “The fuck is this?” he rasped, and the wildling jumped.

“Edd??” Tormund looked ready to bound over and hug him, but, thank the gods, _just_ remembered to lace up his pants first. After that he did come over to lift Edd in a bone-crushing embrace, as Edd struggled to avoid his hands. “You grumpy little crow, I thought we’d lost you. Should’ve known you’d be too stubborn to let a fever take you.”

“Fever?” He turned the concept over in his head. It would explain the burning. “I thought the dragon got me.” He sat up and plumped the pillows behind him, avoiding his friend’s eyes. It was a silly thing, but he didn’t want to look at him right now—had he really mistaken him for the Warrior? _Really?_

There was a long silence, and when he finally resolved to meet Tormund’s eyes, he found his friend already studying him. “The dragon did get you, in a way,” he said finally. “The fever you have, we’re seeing it in a lot of the Last Hearth folks. Mother Mole thinks it came from Viserion. ‘Dragon sickness,’ they’re calling it.”

“That’s stupid,” he grumbled, “The Queen would be sick all the time if that were true. And look at you, you rode the damn dragon, and you’re fine.” Curse his strong constitution.

“All the same.” Tormund surveyed him in the frank and open way he appreciated so much. “Edd, how are you feeling?”

“Poorly.”

“No jokes?? You _must_ be ill.”

“Thought we’d established that. It’s mostly my head, feels like there’s a few builders knocking around in there. And my toes, they’re on fire.”

Tormund winced. _Shit._ “Edd, have you… looked at your feet?”

Under the blankets, he counted seven toes. The two littlest were missing from his left foot, and the long middle one from his right, with raw red sores where toes had been the last time he put his boots on. Others were tinged white at the tips. _The cold took them._ Maybe he was still dreaming. “Seems I remember having more toes, the last time I looked. Just like a wildling to rob a man while he’s sleeping.”

His friend let out a great bellow of laughter too loud to be genuine. “It’s not me that took your toes, it was that man with the metal necklace, what d’you call him—the Maester? A few days past. He’s come to look in on you twice a day since. Jon’s come and gone, too, you just missed him. And—” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned closer. “There’s been a pretty girl visiting you, you crafty old crow. Thought your kind weren’t supposed to take wives!”

“What?” He remembered seeing Sansa in the throes of his fever—he’d examine _that_ later, and decide how embarrassed he needed to be—but Tormund knew her face. “I don’t have a wife, you tedious ass. Too small to steal one, and no woman would have me otherwise. You sure it’s not some serving girl?”

“Do serving girls usually sit at your bedside and sigh, or wipe your forehead for you when you’re ill? I could do with one myself, if that’s the case.” A slap on his leg emphasized the point.

“Wait—you mean _Gilly_?” He remembered her visit, too, but that can’t have been real, she was in Oldtown! “Is she here?”

“So you do know who I’m talking about. You sly bastard!”

“Gilly is—she’s not _mine_ , Tor, she’s with Sam.” But then, he didn’t know who Sam was. “Sam is another crow,” he explained, settling back against his pillows again. That was a mistake; already he was struggling to keep his eyes open. By rights he ought to be more upset about his missing toes, but just now it didn’t seem very important. His head ached so, maybe he’d seen things that weren’t there. Maybe he’d only lost one toe, or none, and imagined what he’d seen under the blanket.

“A crow? I don’t know him. Is he from the Shadow Tower?”

“It’s not important,” he muttered. “Anyway. Gilly is his… wife, or whatever you want to call it. She was one of Craster’s daughters, you might know her better that way.”

It was almost comical, how wide Tormund’s eyes got. “Thought all of them had died,” he mused. “She got away, aye? And ran into you crows. Or did this Sam steal her?”

A mental image of Sam heaving Gilly over his shoulder and waddling away made him snort. “I think she stole him,” he cracked, and his friend laughed too. “Look, Tor, I’m not up to much conversation. Can you send Jon back later?” He had questions for him, but they could wait until after sleep, which right now seemed the most important thing in the world.

“O’course. I’ll let you sleep, now you’re out of the woods.” He barked a laugh. “In more ways than one.”

He was surprisingly quiet with the door, for a man of his size, and Edd was grateful for it. There had been enough surprises for a season already. He wondered how long he had been sleeping, gripped by fever. What else had transpired, while he thrashed about uselessly in his bed? Was the boy recovering? And—his stomach squirmed—had Sansa actually come to tend to him, or had that _really_ been a dream? Perhaps that would be better. He must look wretched, and smell worse. But for now, the bed was soft and comfortable, the blankets warm, and if his sheets had gotten a bit pungent with sweat, well, he was bound to sweat more. He turned toward the window, beating his pillow into submission and stretching his sluggish limbs, wiggling his toes before remembering that he shouldn’t. It was excruciating, but he gritted his teeth and continued the stretch. _If you don’t look at your toes, they might still be there. You don’t know. You could be dreaming._

Outside the sky was a vivid, piercing blue, and the sun shone. Tufts of cloud drifted by, borne on a stiff breeze. If he focused on the view out his window, he could almost believe himself back in Gulltown. Those scant few moments when he’d woken and thought himself home again—it had surprised him, the gladness in his heart. He thought he’d outgrown strong emotions. Castle Black had long since become home to him, and memories of anything before the Watch’s strict routines had dimmed like the sky in the darkest part of night, the sun so far away and untouchable he was nearly convinced it didn’t exist. When was the last time he’d thought of his mother drawing bathwater?

As he drifted off again, he caught a glimpse of something whirling in the sky over Winterfell. A gull? No, too far from the sea. And rather too big…

A hand pinched his cheek. “Edd! Wake up!” Only a few people called him that, and just one with a pretty feminine voice. It was a nice way to wake up, although he could’ve done without the pinch. “Well met, Gilly,” he murmured, and opened his eyes. Through the blur of sleep he could see her childlike face dimpling with a wide smile. And she wasn’t alone. Behind her stood Sam, wearing a twin expression of relief and happiness, and Jon, who looked to have aged ten years since he left the Wall. A bone-deep weariness lifted from his bones upon seeing his friends. An unexpected joy, but welcome. _Suppose I deserve a good turn after all this,_ he thought, and hoped the gods weren’t listening to his hubris.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and was alarmed by the roughness of his own voice. “Thought you were at the Citadel, Sam.”

“Took a bit of a detour,” he admitted. “Went by my father’s castle and introduced the family to Gilly and Little Sam. Father kicked me out, so I stole his sword and took it with me to the Citadel.” He looked positively gleeful at his own audacity. “That didn’t go so well either. Can you believe, they didn’t know the Old Bear was dead? I had to tell them when I got there that Jon was Lord Commander.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” he rasped. “I’m Lord Commander, now. Did you know?” It would be nice to know something Sam didn’t, for once.

“Yes, Jon’s told us! Congratulations!” Rats.

Gilly beamed. “I told Sam, good that they picked someone _sensible_ for once. If anyone can keep those men in line, it’s you. Didn’t I say, Sam?”

“You did.” He beamed back and Edd had to suppress a groan. So they were just as disgustingly smitten as ever. Some things never changed.

It seemed like loving hand-holding might break out at any moment. In an prevent it, he said, “Tell me what’s been happening a bit closer to home. Seems unfair to reminisce about anywhere there’s warm weather.”

“Well…” Sam and Jon exchanged glances that told him something more was going on than he’d previously been told.

“Go on, then.” It was a fight to keep the irritation out of his voice. He’d had little and less news from Tormund before he drowsed. There wasn’t time to faff about with delicacy.

Jon took a deep breath and put on his Lord Commander face. “Edd, do you know how long you were out?”

“A day or two?” There had been a period of night, at least. “Don’t remember much after Lord Umber and I reached the wolfswood, if truth be told.”

Gilly reseated herself at his side and put the back of her hand to his forehead, feeling for heat. “Oh, Edd. You’ve been ill for nearly a week.”

That couldn’t be right. “A _week_? Are you sure?” One of the very few things he prided himself on was that he rarely took ill. A deep sense of foreboding took root in his gut. Dragon sickness, indeed.

“We’re sure,” Sam said. “It was Lord Tully and his men that brought you in, they ran across you and Lord Umber a few leagues south of Winterfell. You were camped near the kingsroad, both insensible with fever. Gilly—”

“I was afraid you might die,” she wailed, and threw her arms around him. For the second time that day, he sat immobile while someone hugged him. “We were so worried, me and Sam and your friend Tormund and Lady Sansa all took watches—Jon is so busy, but he checked on you whenever he could—and the cook brought you hot broth every hour, to keep your strength up. It was days before you even recognized us—”

“I remember you visiting and putting a cool cloth on my forehead,” he interrupted, and as his reward, her eyes swam with tears.

“Even Little Sam asked after you. He wanted to come visit but I thought, under the circumstances… maybe now that you’re feeling better,” Sam said gently.

There was a lump in his throat now, and Edd did not trust himself to speak. His friends’ worries seemed a bit overblown, now he had recovered. Why were they so emotional? Curious that Little Sam even remembered him, when it had been so long…

As if reading his thoughts, Gilly said, “He’s been talking for ages now. Whole sentences and all! In another year or two—” here, she shot a tremulous look at Sam, “—we’re going to start teaching him his letters.” The glow of pride she emitted at this statement said more than letters ever could.

“Yes, he’s very bright,” Sam echoed. “He’s too shy to talk much yet, but his speech is very clear, you know.”

“Wait until he is Lord Umber’s age, and you’ll think fondly of the time when he didn’t speak,” he grumbled, albeit with a grin on his face. “He’ll never shut up, then.”

For some reason, Gilly wept harder at this. “That poor little boy! He told us how you rescued him, Edd, and brought him to Winterfell when you were so ill yourself… We can hardly keep him from your side.”

“You’ve made quite the impression on him.” Jon grinned.

Edd made a show of rearranging his blankets, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He was relieved that Lord Umber was no worse for wear; yet, somehow he’d hardly thought of him since he’d woken. Well, he’d had rather a lot to deal with, hadn’t he? And it wasn’t like the boy was his own. He can’t have visited _that_ often, Edd didn’t remember seeing him at all. His toes wiggled, bringing that gut-wrenching pain again, and a stiffness that wasn’t there before. The pain in his heart was worse. _I wasn’t dreaming. They’re really gone._

“I’d like to see Lord Umber,” he volunteered. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“We’ll bring him by, and Little Sam.” The couple gave him two identical smiles. “Any orders for our brothers, while I’m here?”

“No, no,” he demurred. “Sam… how many of them are left?”

“Nearly all. Most of our brothers and the Free Folk made it here just fine. It’s among the Last Hearth smallfolk that we’ve seen heavy losses.” His friend said this matter-of-factly, but his voice wavered. “And many of those who made it here are ill, too, now.”

Jon spoke up at last. “Denys Mallister is among the fallen. Cotter Pyke has taken charge of the Watch in your absence.”

_If Ser Denys had been Lord Commander instead of me, he might’ve escaped with Lord Umber._ They all would’ve been better served if he had. Edd lacked his skill at arms, his political connections, and so did Pyke. He became aware that his hands were clenched into two fists, and consciously relaxed his muscles. “Now his watch is ended.”

“We will never see his like again,” murmured Jon and Sam.

A brief silence followed, and then Gilly patted his hand. “The smallfolk who made it here are doing well, though. Lady Sansa has been keeping them separate, and the dragon sickness has not spread to Winterfell. If their fever breaks, Maester Wolkan examines them, and lets them into the castle once he’s cleared them of any symptoms.” He suspected Gilly did not know what a symptom was, but she sounded proud to say it. And why shouldn’t she be? From Craster’s Keep to visiting the Citadel was quite a leap. It was a pity she’d drawn the short straw of circumstance.

But his thoughts were wandering again. Was he always so feeble minded, or was it the fever? “What’s happening with the Others?” For a moment he dared to hope they had been defeated while he was knocked out, and he wouldn’t have to do anything.

“Not much, or, not much that we know about. Even the Last Hearth smallfolk haven’t seen hide nor hair of them except for the dragon. My brother Bran has been keeping an eye on them, of a sort. He says they’re gathering strength from abandoned settlements.”

Lord Brandon, now that was a nasty reminder. He furrowed his brow. The boy had appeared at Castle Black, on the wrong side of the wall, shortly after he’d taken up residence in the Lord Commander’s suite. He’d liked the boy’s companion, Lady Reed, but Brandon had always given him a cold chill, like when Pyp used to sneak a handful of snow down the back of his shirt.

“Edd?” Gilly’s touch was gentle. “If we’re making you tired, we can leave.”

Of course, Sam would be cross if he missed dinner. He shouldn’t keep them. Yet, the prospect of facing nightfall alone, cold and restless, troubled him more than it should. He waved them away in what he hoped was a careless fashion. “Go on, it must be near dinner. But do you think you could visit again after?” That wasn’t too much to ask. It made sense for the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to take counsel with the King in the North. That the King in the North would bring him comfort was beside the point.

“Well, the Queen and I retire early of late.” A blush was creeping over Jon’s face. “More likely I’ll stop by tomorrow morning.”

“You and the Queen?”

“Yes.” His friend was well and truly red now, and peered up at him from under those long lashes that had no doubt attracted the Queen to him. “Edd, I’ve married. And, don’t spread it about, but… there is a little one on the way, as well.”

Gilly’s exclamation of joy nearly deafened him, and as she jumped up to embrace Jon, he stared at the ceiling, which, he saw, desperately needed a scrub. Sam and Gilly, and now Jon and Daenerys… Once he had decided “Edd and Steffa” had a nice sound to it, but… He hadn’t thought of her in a while. It was a surprise to find that the wound was still sore. Must be the illness.

“That’s _wonderful_ ,” Gilly gushed, “Sam, isn’t it wonderful? Little Sam will have a friend!”

“Wonderful,” Sam echoed, but his face looked as though someone had slapped him. “You’re _sure_ , Jon?”

But Gilly interrupted him. “And, Edd, if the Queen gives Sam permission to leave the Watch, like we’ve asked, we’ll soon have another wedding.”

All his musings about Steffa, and more recent infatuations, disappeared as her words had their intended effect. “You two?” he asked, and they smiled their twin smiles again. “Should’ve known. Sam, I’ll never know how you convinced her, but congratulations. Jon, I hope that babe of yours isn’t a girl, or Gilly will be planning another wedding before she’s out of diapers.”

There was a round of hugs, and reassurances that they would return on the morrow, and Gilly kissed his cheek. With a final promise to bring some wine to toast their union, his three best friends departed, closing the door behind them with a snap. He could hear Gilly’s laughter echoing down the hall for a few moments before the stillness settled around him.

He should be pleased, he supposed. Good things had happened today. Tormund and the boy were safe and healthy. Jon was married and Sam about to be, and Gilly was happier than he had ever seen her. He still had his life, and if the cost was a few toes… no matter. Nobody would know unless he took off his boot.

It was the silence, he decided. Castle Black was built for utility, not comfort, and after years at the Wall he no longer registered the howl of the wind, the clanking of the winch, the shouts and japes of the men standing watch. Winterfell proved to be rather better insulated. The quiet was eerie—in the absence of distraction, his own thoughts demanded attention. And how long had it been since he slept alone? Even during his tenure as Lord Commander, when he enjoyed his own room, his steward slept in the antechamber. Maybe that was it; he just missed the sound of someone else near him, that was all. It was only natural. Perhaps now that Jon was married, with a pregnant wife, Ghost would come sleep on his bed instead. Maybe he’d drop a hint when he saw Jon next. Animals were excellent company, better than most people, and Ghost liked him. And that gull he’d seen earlier… if he set out some seed, he might be able to lure it to his window.

The thought of seeds made him realize he’d missed dinner… for several days. His stomach rumbled as if on cue. Curious, he peered down the neck of his nightshirt, and saw his ribs were standing out even more starkly than usual. He’d always been thin, but now he was starting to look like a wight. Words would be exchanged if Sam didn’t think to bring some cake along with the wine he was promised.

The castle was settling down for the night when there was a knock at his door. He hoped it was Jon come back to visit privately, but it proved to be the cook, a very plump woman entirely unremarkable but for her mangled face. She looked like she’d gone a round with a hungry wight and come off the worse for it. Perhaps she had!

She gave a faint smile to find him awake. Businesslike, she lifted a bowl of tepid broth to his lips and helped him to drink. It was grossly intimate. He didn’t think anyone had ever fed him except his parents.

“Enough?” she asked, and her faced twisted in what might have been a smile.

“Think you could spare anything else? I’ve a desire for something hot.”

“Well, that depends, are you after a meal or a woman?” She withdrew the bowl and rested it against one ample hip. “Because I can only help you with one.” His face must have betrayed his utter horror, for she laughed then, a loud, rich sound. “I meant pie!”

That didn’t settle the matter, in his opinion. Had Tormund sent him a whore? His friend did have an odd sense of humor, and he misliked the obvious alternative—that he was trying to do Edd a real favor. Truth be told, most women he’d laid with hadn’t looked much different except for the ruined face, but all of them had been properly paid for with his own coin, not sent to his room out of pity. No, this would be a mistake, even if he was up to it, which he wasn’t.

He chose to assume she was actually a cook. “I’d take some fresh bread and jam, if you have it, but nothing more adventurous. I wouldn’t want to make myself sick and be more trouble.” Oh gods, if she _was_ a whore, that sounded awful. “Begging your pardon,” he added, shifty-eyed.

“I’ve got bread, though there’s no jam. Butter?”

“That would be fine.” Thank the Seven he’d been polite.

Tough and stale as it was, the bread was the best thing he’d tasted in months, and he wolfed it down. Ghost would have been proud. The cook settled in Gilly’s vacated chair to wait but had hardly gotten comfortable before his dish was empty. “You’re properly hungry, I like to see that,” she observed, and felt his forehead. He wished people would stop doing that. “And you don’t feel hot as a dragon’s scale anymore. Do you know, I think you’re recovering?” Her lips twisted again, and suddenly Edd was glad she had come to see him, whoever she was.

“Thanks for the meal and your trouble. I’d send my steward to the kitchens for my breakfast tomorrow, but I don’t know where he is. Or if he’s alive.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Lady Sansa has already asked me to arrange delivery of your meals as soon as you can keep them down. I expect that will be tomorrow breakfast, unless you have a nasty surprise during the night.”

“I expect you’re right.” He was beginning to enjoy this woman’s down-to-earth attitude, and never mind her bawdy comments earlier. “Good night, Lady..?”

“Dariya.” She made a circuit of the room, blowing out all of the candles, while he relaxed into his bed. Now that he was full, sleep did not seem so far away. Even his feet felt better. “And Lord Commander?”

“Yes?” he mumbled, already drowsing.

Backlit by the orange light of the hall, she clutched the empty dish to her ample chest, and winked. “You just let me know if you need anything else, when you’re feeling… stronger.”

Dariya did not return after that night, sending Three-Finger Hobb up with meals in her stead. Edd’s gladness at seeing him alive was soon tempered by annoyance at his volubility, for Hobb had much to say about his replacement. “I’ve never seen such bread-making,” he steamed as Edd tore into a roll, pacing the room. “She always leaves it out to proof too long, and it goes all flat, and oft as not it’s raw in the middle. And the flour! Why ,I’ve bitten into loaves twice now and found a line of flour in the middle, because she’s used too much to roll it out. _Flour_ , Edd!”

“Flour,” he agreed around a mouthful of bread—which he realized was a poor showing, now that he wasn’t starving.

“ _Why_ Jon allows her to abuse our food when I’m here, I’ll never know,” he growled. “And she’s a woman! I may have lost my fingers but I’ve still got my cock. I won’t take orders from a bloody woman.”

“You’ll take orders from me, though, unless you want to lose your cock as well. What do you say to being my personal steward? Mully’s dead, and unless my toes grow back I could use some help getting around.” Joking about his maimed feet took some of the sting out of being a cripple. And he wasn’t fully a cripple, not like Brandon; Maester Wolkan had assured him he would be able to walk just fine, once he healed. For now he made do with a cane, and kept mostly to his rooms where no one could see him use it.

Hobb bristled with suspicion. “Your own steward? This a joke? The Old Bear took Jon on as steward to groom him as his replacement, and Jon, you…”

“Who’s to say you’re not qualified to lead the Watch when I go to my maker? Even Stannis said so.”

“Stannis didn’t have the wits the gods gave a goose. If that Melisandre was my woman, I wouldn’t leave my bedroom long enough to burn any daughters.”

Thus reassured that Hobb’s heart—and loins—were working properly, Edd reiterated his offer, and, after just the right amount of bluster, Hobb accepted. For his first official duty, he helped Edd to the godwood. Edd had it from Gilly that Lord Umber spent much of his time in prayer before the weirwood tree. He hadn’t anticipated, though, the warm welcome he would receive from Winterfell’s people. Men bowed their heads in respect as they passed, and the women offered him tremulous smiles, even the occasional curtsy. He thought Hobb must have performed some magnificent feat in his escape from the Last Hearth until an old woman stopped and wrung Edd’s hands, blessing him and thanking him profusely for saving ‘milord.’ Then he remembered it might appear that he had saved Lord Umber’s life. Really, it was the horse that had saved them both. He wondered what had become of the poor animal.

His new steward waited at the edge of the godswood at his request. “I won’t be long,” he assured Hobb, and shambled off towards the weirwood tree. Before he’d gone halfway around the pool in the center of the godswood, he was wishing for Hobb’s strong shoulder to lean on, and by three-quarters of the way he was cursing the Old Gods for insisting that worshippers kneel before a heart tree instead of making their offerings in a flat, level sept like normal people.

In an unusual spurt of luck, Lord Umber saw him shuffling along and came to help him walk the last several yards to the foot of the tree. There was not much snow in this area, due to the hot springs that fed the pool, and there was a flat spot on one of the exposed roots that had clearly served someone as a seat, once. He flopped down and took a great, steadying breath. The old dragon fire had returned in his feet, and his legs ached something awful. “You’re a hard man to find, Lord Umber,” he wheezed.

The boy frowned. “I came to your room this morning, but you were asleep!”

“Why didn’t you just wake me and spare me the trouble?”

“I tried. You said some words my Maester told me not to use before company.”

_Children,_ he thought, and shook his head. “Never mind. I came to see how you were doing, but I see you’re hale and hearty. More so than me.” His remaining toes wiggled in his boots.

“Maester Wolkan says I am better. My fever is gone and I didn’t lose any toes like you. Just part of my ear. See?” Before Edd could react, he pulled back the hair from over his right ear to display a vicious, angry wound. _Mother above!_

“It… looks like it’s healing,” he said carefully, and made a mental note to speak to Maester Wolkan about it. A boy Lord Umber’s age might not be diligent about keeping his wounds clean. “And if you grow your hair out a bit more, might be you won’t be able to see it.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if people see,” he said with a degree of cheer Edd had never mustered in his life, let alone days after an amputation. “Grandfather lost two fingers to Robb Stark’s wolf, and he wore it as a badge of honor.”

That was one way to think of it. “That’s very well, m’lord, but still I think I’ll keep my feet hidden in company.” Ned didn’t laugh. Perhaps it had been too much to hope for, too soon.

He realized he had nothing else to say, but was not enthusiastic to begin the long walk back around the pool. What did one say to children? Should he ask after the fate of Maester Godwin? Their horse? If Ned had been a few years younger Edd might’ve tried to soothe him with platitudes, but ten seemed a bit old for that.

But the boy seemed to sense his discomfort, and earned Edd’s eternal gratitude by turning back to face the weirwood tree to finish his prayers, leaving him to rub his legs in peace. After a week and a half in bed the muscles had gone slack. Now he was up and about again, they were working double duty to compensate for his injury. He had aches in places he hadn’t even known about. Wolkan said he would regain his balance, probably wouldn’t even have a limp, but _when?_

Even the lovely afternoon couldn’t cheer him. It wasn’t so cold now, and the godswood was a quiet, peaceful place where a man could rest; but being so exposed next to the wide pool made him jumpy. Not that he could’ve jumped. Was Viserion watching for them even now? Could they do anything to save themselves, if he was?

“Looking for the dragon?” Ned had snuck up on him as he ruminated. The boy sounded more sage than he had any right to. Edd scowled. “I was, too. But I prayed to the Old Gods to keep him away. Your Seven, as well, since you don’t keep the Old Gods.”

“M’lord, the gods aren’t real,” he blurted out, and immediately hated himself for it. _Why do I do this? Why shouldn’t the boy have some comfort? He’ll have plenty of time to become disillusioned when he’s older._ Even Edd had been moderately cheerful in his youth.

Lord Umber refused to be swayed. “Yes they are. Even the Maester says so. Why do you think there was one horse left, just for us? The Old Gods gave him to us. Your Seven brought Lord Tully to save us when we were sick, and Lord Beric says the Red God kept our fire going while we waited.”

He wanted to mutter something like “bugger the Red God,” but remembered Ned would scold him again for rough language. “Believe what you will, if it makes you happy. Me, I believe in a hot dinner and a horn of ale right about now. Run and fetch my steward Hobb, if it please you, m’lord, I’ll need his help to walk back.”

“I can help you, Lord Commander. My ear doesn’t stop my legs from working.”

“That’s not proper for a Lord,” he muttered, and got himself to his feet. For an instant he thought he felt his missing middle toe again, but it was gone again, a phantom, as soon as he recognized it.

“It’s proper for a friend, Lord Commander.” 

For once, Edd lacked the energy to argue. He let Lord Umber place his arm around his slim shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Edd 😭 But we're trying to keep it realistic in here. There's no way he and Ned could've left the Last Hearth with so few provisions and still arrived at Winterfell completely intact. I'd like it known that I had to look up amputation recovery times for this, I don't want to know what that does to my ad suggestions. But good for Hobb, though, right? Dude has seen some shit. He deserves a little love.  
> A small note regarding Sam and Tormund--theoretically they might have met, they were at Castle Black around the same time. But, Tormund wasn't exactly mingling freely with the Watch, and Sam was usually tucked away in the library anyway. I think it's safe to assume they don't recognize each other.  
> Next week, we check back in on Roslin, who's been stuck at Riverrun since chapter 2. I wonder what she's been up to all this time...


	12. Roslin II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roslin fulfills a request from her absent husband, and we meet possibly the only man in Westeros who mourns Walder Frey.

The massive curtain wall, dark and damp where it was not covered in creeping green moss, loomed overhead, casting Roslin and her mount into shadow. Had it always been so high? Maybe she had never looked at it properly. _I have grown too used to the faded red walls of Riverrun. It is natural I should feel discomfited._ For nothing short of a vision of the Mother herself descending from on high could have prepared Roslin to see the Twins again. Fear gripped her as she perched on her palfrey, gazing up at the western tower of her girlhood home, a letter sealed with the blue wax of her husband’s house clutched in her fist.

“What would you have us do, Lady Roslin?” Jolyon, her Captain of Guards, sat watching the rush of the river, his gaze directed downstream, away from the castle. To his credit, his voice did not waver. “Is your family expecting you, or should we ride up and knock, eh?”

“No, no one is expecting us, unless Edmure sent them word from Winterfell when he summoned me.” She cleared her throat. “It did not occur to me to send ahead until we were already on the road. You must think me quite foolish.”

“Not foolish,” he said, shifting his weight. “Just ill prepared to lead troops.” Though they could hardly be called troops; some five hundred foot soldiers, barely out of boyhood, plus their mothers and sisters and grandfathers. Most of the inhabitants of Rivertown, all told, and not a few hangers-on from Pennytree and Wendish Town. “You won’t have been trained to do things like this.”

“I would gladly defer to your experience, if you would be so kind to offer it.”

“Experience?” He scoffed, eyes still fixed on the rippling waters of the Green Fork. “My experience tells me to turn around and ride hard for Riverrun, and not stop until we get there. I don’t like the feel of this place, begging your pardon, my lady. I know my Jo felt much the same. Would that he had acted on it. He might still be here.”

“Yes, well, I wish many of us had made different choices.” She purposely pitched her voice low, lest her words carry beyond Jolyon. The people of Rivertown had not shown Roslin any disrespect on their journey north, but with every mile they drew nearer the Twins the whispers increased threefold. “I’ll wager she’s leading us into a trap,” she’d heard someone mutter around a fire last night when she’d slipped out of her tent for some air. “Murdering King Robb and Lady Catelyn wasn’t enough for them, them Freys want to make sure they get all of the Tullys. Now she’s got a boy by Edmure she thinks she can take over the Riverlands.” She’d frozen still as a statue in disbelief. _They can’t think that I wanted this!_ It was a relief to hear someone else pipe up, “Oh, don’t be so hard on Lady Roslin. She can’t have known. What kind of woman would agree to a massacre for her wedding party, eh?” A grim sort of laughter had rustled around the group.

She _tried_ to be compassionate. She knew that it was hard on her people, knew that many of her traveling companions, including gruff Jolyon, had lost sons or husbands or fathers at the Red Wedding. _But so did I,_ she wanted to plead with them, _I lost my whole family._ Even those who hadn’t plotted the massacre were tainted in her memory. Edmure and little Hos were all that remained to her, and Ed had been torn away from her again, gone up north to do Gods knew what at Jaime Lannister’s bidding. She longed for his counsel now, even of the rash sort. Ed’s ideas about what to do with the Twins varied wildly depending upon his mood—he’d proposed everything from settling the castles on her niece Fair Walda to burning it down—but at least he always had a suggestion. She smiled in spite of herself. _Soon we’ll be together at Winterfell, and he’ll laugh to hear of my silliness._

“I think I’ll ride up and see who’s at home,” she suggested gamely, with more spirit than she felt. “Would you accompany me, Jolyon?”

Together they trotted up to the portcullis, the red-and-blue banner of Tully rippling behind them. It was silent except for the hiss of the riverlanders at their back. _You don’t know that, maybe it’s just the river. Be bold, Roslin. This is your home, for better or worse._ She still clutched her husband’s letter in her fist, a small but much needed comfort as she prepared to greet her family for the first time as a Tully. The pad of her thumb rubbed at the broken wax, noting each bump and crevice of the featureless seal as she fought to keep her nerves from showing. It would perhaps be smart to put it away, but without something to hold on to, she knew her hands would shake and betray her.

“Who goes there?” A behelmed head popped up from behind the battlements high above them. The sight brought back a dim memory of her and Arwyn in that very spot, pitching apples down the wall for their brothers to try and spear with their wooden swords. That had been an amusing afternoon. Benfrey had hit one at last, and the apple exploded in dozens of mealy white pieces. Olyvar, closest to the carnage, had been sprayed with juice and fruit and attacked Ben in mock outrage. They’d rolled around wrestling then, and poor little Wendel, himself splattered with mud, ran off in tears. She and Arwyn had almost split a gut laughing. A sudden, hard lump rose in her throat. Ben and Olly were dead now.

 _I have outlived my whole family._ Roslin lowered her head to hide the sudden tears welling in her eyes. Noticing her distress, the stalwart Jolyon raised his own voice to call out, “Lady Roslin Tully seeks entry!” She felt a surge of affection for her husband’s Captain.

“Lady Roslin?” The man above them lowered his helm, and she knew his face. It was only Red Rychard, who’d been in their service since before she was born. As she’d come to womanhood his glances at her grew longer and more furtive, and he had been known to make a ribald remark in his cups, but she’d never been gladder to see him. The restriction in her throat eased.

“Yes, Rychard, I have come home. Is this the welcome you show a daughter of Walder Frey?” she called out. Jolyon twitched to her left, involuntarily; but the reference to her father had the intended effect.

“Of course you are welcome, m’lady, it’s just we didn’t have news of your coming.” Far above, the man’s face blurred, and she knew he was chewing his sourleaf as he always had when he was thinking. He did love to point out shortcomings in others, that one.

“We sent a raven last sevenday.” The voice from her left startled her, and she was glad they were far away from the battlements. Her quick look over at the Captain should go unremarked at this distance. “Mayhaps one of your men shot it down. I gather that news from Riverrun is no longer prized at the Twins.”

Red Rychard chewed his sourleaf, juice squirting between his teeth. “Think we’d listen to news, if offered. It’s just no one in this castle has heard from Lady Tully or her husband since they were wed.”

Jolyon huffed in anger and resettled himself on his horse. It was only natural that they should trade barbs, but she wished they wouldn’t; anger accomplished so little. Men were touchy about pride, even the best of them, and Freys had been cursed with a greater measure than most.

“Enough,” she called before they could continue, and was pleased at how steady her voice sounded. Ed would be proud. “Raise the gate, if you will.”

For a moment she thought Rychard might just withdraw from the battlements and return to the peace of his fire. For all he liked to poke at others, he had never sought a confrontation he might lose. It was the reluctant creaking of the portcullis that finally told her she had won. She felt the small flame of victory kindling in her chest.

Jolyon rode in at her side but refused to dismount, or indeed go any further inside than the barbican—“Think you’ll be safe enough with your own people, my lady”—and was left alone to brood over the fate of his son. _He could do with a kind word,_ she thought, but there was no time to offer one, not with her father’s guards around. She’d given his arm a simple squeeze and told him she’d return as soon as possible. Now, though, she wasn’t sure when that might be; every relation she had left, it seemed, had crowded around to witness the return of their wayward sister. Tyta greeted her with a hug, and White Walda and her young brother Jonos smiled; but orphaned Ryella only watched her beadily, her wailing sister Hostella in her arms. _Her eyes look too old by half,_ Roslin thought, and pushed down the instinct to gather Ryella in her arms. The remaining Blackwood Freys formed their own contingent, silent, watchful, as if waiting for a command from Lord Walder that would never come. Even her niece Alyx, who had wept bitter tears for a week when Roslin was chosen to marry Edmure instead of her, had shown. Alyx remained mute now, assessing her coolly from afar while the Farring Freys clambered to entreat, pet, and hug her. Arwyn’s presence was the only one that brought relief; otherwise, the attention was actually quite frightening. Faces she had known from birth, even loved, seemed strange to her now, misshapen with the passage of time or grief. For an instant she saw her cousins and kin as a stranger might, just a maze of grasping hands and toothy faces, and it chilled her to her very marrow.

It was a relief to be shown to the Great Hall, even knowing what had occurred the last time she was there. Her bastard nephew, Ser Aemon Rivers, seemed to have assumed the duties of steward in Lame Lothar’s absence; he extricated her from the press of relatives in the western tower and led her across the bridge, into the Water Tower, and out again over the river like an unwelcome guest, not his aunt. A northerly wind whipped around them as they crossed. _That wind is less cold than his manner._ She quietly asked Aemon if she could have a private word with Maester Brenett, and he grunted, which usually meant “sure.”

The eastern tower was blessedly devoid of activity. Only a few guards lingered outside the Great Hall, and she did not see any of the dozens of servants about. _Curious._ Aemon offered no explanation. When he stumped out, banging the doors closed, Roslin was left alone. Alone but for ghosts, and they would not ask favors of her. She drifted over to her favorite seat, where she had often eaten meals with Arwyn and Walda and Amerei. “Hello,” she murmured, as if the shades of their happy, chattering girl-selves were still here. “It’s me, Roslin. I’ve come home.” It sounded childish to her ears, and she knew Ed would chide her for it, but perhaps the Seven would pass her message on to her missing siblings. Her husband found little solace in faith, but their shared tragedy had served to make her more devout. She’d spent much of the past few years on her knees before the Mother or the Warrior, praying for her husband and son, and—if the Seven could spare them—her sisters and brothers. She had been rewarded for her devotion when Edmure returned to her, gaunt and dirty, but still ready with a smile. To what else could she owe her good fortune? As soon as Ed slept, his first night back at Riverrun, she had gone stealthily to the Sept and lit a candle to each of the seven gods in her joy. Even now she visited them every few days, often with Hoster in tow. He already showed an affinity for the Smith. Once he had reached out with his chubby little hand for the hammer, a sight that filled her with a pride so fierce it left her breathless.

And if the Seven had returned her husband from captivity, and kept her son healthy, why shouldn’t they allow her a moment of communion with her family? She had prayed dutifully for Ben and Olly and Perwyn, and Willamen too, off at Longbow Hall. In the richly decorated Riverrun sept, surrounded by cool white marble and refracted light tinted all the colors of the rainbow, she had never felt closer to the gods; but the thread of connection to her brothers did not reach beyond the grave. They were lost to her forever, even as she felt the Gods at her side. At the time she had not dared to poke at the wound, choosing instead to embrace her new life. How quickly the shame returned here, in the halls of her father. Walder Frey had preached that a wife should obey her husband in all things, and he had married her to Edmure, yet somehow she knew he would sneer at her obedience if he were here today. _You made me this way!_ she wanted to scream at him. _It’s your own fault I reject the very name of Frey!_

“Rosie!” Only her good breeding kept her from jumping in fright. She’d been so lost in thought that she hadn’t heard anyone enter the cavernous Hall. But when she turned, she saw the second truly welcome face of the day. Their old maester, Brenett, was waddling his way over to her, his jowly old face alight with surprise and delight at her unexpected arrival. She’d always been something of a favorite of his. He’d spent hours secretly training her at the harp once he discovered she had a talent for it, conducting her playing with a quill, a wistful smile on his round face. “Ser Aemon told me you had come. Trying to sneak up on me?”

“Maester Brenett!” She flew to him and gave him a long, tight hug, not even troubling to avoid the habitual raven droppings down the front of his robe. She had other gowns, but only one Maester. “You are a sight for sore eyes. It is such a joy to see you again. I wondered, after the news I had…” She trailed off, unsure whether she wanted to stir up more memories.

He patted her arm, his smile dimming. “It will take more than a Faceless Man to kill me, my dear. Why should they succeed where years of rich food and sedentary habits have failed? Pah!”

 _A Faceless Man?_ The name rang a faint bell, far back in her memory. “What have you to do with pirates?” They were pirates, weren’t they? Or Ironborn? Something like that. She never liked scary stories.

Brenett shook his head, the creases of his face deepening in concern. “Don’t you read any of the letters I send you? Or does your lord husband keep them back?”

“No, Ed keeps nothing from me. I… I find them too troubling to read,” she confessed. Before, she had treasured the letters from her old Maester, reading and re-reading them so many times they became as soft and supple as cloth. She had gotten as far as the third paragraph of his last letter—the one that brought the news of what was now called the Lone Wolf Massacre—before breaking down in sobs. For days the letter languished on her dressing table unfinished, an admonishment of her weakness. At last she’d come to bed one evening to the sight of Ed burning it in the hearth. They did not discuss it, but she’d hugged him tight all night in thanks for taking the decision out of her hands. There were no letters from Brenett after that, and she had assumed it was her fault for not responding. For the first time she had the unpleasant notion that there _had_ been more letters from him, ones that she hadn’t been trusted to see.

Her old friend sighed. “You always had a soft heart. It’s a blessing in a woman, but makes bearing ill news all the harder. Rosie, you know what happened to your brothers and nephews?”

“Yes,” she answered gravely. “I did read that. Poisoned.”

Brenett sighed again. “Poisoned, yes. Troubling in itself, but the Freys do not lack for enemies, you must know that. What worries me more is the _method_ … Sit,” he suggested, gesturing at her favorite seat. After all these years, he still remembered which one had been hers.

She rounded the table and sat, and he settled into the seat across from her, where Walda used to take her meals. “I have to admit I did not finish that letter from you,” she said, taking care to keep her voice steady. “It was very upsetting. I gathered that the… loss was extreme. But if you speculated about the assassin’s motives, I didn’t get that far.”

There was a tremble in her old Maester’s hand as he reached for her own. “This is only guesswork, of course,” he warned her. “I daren’t call for retribution without proof. All I know is that your father suddenly came over very queer. One night all was well, but the next morning, he shut himself up as soon as he rose, and wouldn’t see anyone. The few words I exchanged with him that day seemed forced. His speech was more…” He searched for a fitting word, twirling his hand. “…Deliberate than usual. You know how he liked to come at a thing sideways?” She nodded. “Well, on this day, his words were almost… clipped. Like he begrudged me each one. I thought an attack of the pleurisy had come upon him, perhaps, but then…” He passed a hand over his eyes. “That night he called for a feast for the family. I left him alone, I confess it, thinking his strength had returned. I wish now that I hadn’t...” A fat stream of tears squeezed out of his bright, kindly eyes. He gripped her hand tightly.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said in a watery voice. “You were placed here to guide and advise Father, not serve as guard.”

“That’s as may be, but I had suspicions.” He was openly weeping now. “I should have said something. To Black Walder, if not your father. I only thought, maybe he was planning something himself…”

Roslin left her seat and circled the long table until she was at Brenett’s side. He accepted her hug with good grace, clinging to her with a strength she had not known he still possessed. “That night, he ordered all the doors to the Great Hall shut while he conferred with the family. I was not allowed in, nor was Septon Fry. Only the sculleries and serving girls. I thought… I thought…” Too overcome with grief to speak, he wept into her shoulder like a child. “I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

His sobs turned to sniffles as she rubbed his back. How odd, to be confronted with the tale of her father’s death, and have to comfort _him!_ But it did give her strength. She had noticed that before, the times when Ed had broken down into fits of sobbing or withdrawn into himself so far that he didn’t recognize her face when she came upon him. It was easy to be strong when someone else needed you. _But who is there to be strong for me?_ she wondered.

The maester dried his eyes, at long last, and made a sheepish smile. “Begging your forgiveness, Lady Tully, I have forgotten myself in the joy of seeing you. I have had precious few confidantes of late.”

“Never apologize for being too familiar with me.” He offered another wan smile, and she knew the crisis had passed. “We can speak of this another time, if you prefer. We must hasten on our way, in any case…”

The aged hands dabbed once again at his weak eyes, but he demurred. “No, no, I can go on now. I… I will spare you the details of what happened at these tables, since I was not here. Go to your sisters if you need to know. I hope that you don’t. What I gleaned from them afterward, as they streamed screaming and sobbing from the hall, was that your father then stripped off his face—”

Roslin shuddered. “ _What?_ ” She knew Ed’s sister had clawed at her own face as she died, in the extremity of her grief and terror, but she had not thought her father capable of such emotions. “He tore his own skin..?”

“Would that it were so.” Brenett gulped down a great breath. “No, he… _removed_ it. Peeled it away like a rind from an orange. This is only what I was told, of course, I did not witness it myself, but I trust Mariya’s recollections.”

She nodded. Lady Mariya was the mother of her favorite niece, Walda, and neither had much patience for hysteria. With a pang of guilt, she remembered that Walda, too, was gone now, and wondered if Mariya had shed any tears for her daughter or dismissed them as “womanly nonsense,” as she had so many other things. _Will I ever be able to remember them without it hurting?_ “I will speak with her later, but go on.”

“You may find that difficult. Lady Mariya has fled, as have most of your other goodsisters. Anyone who has family to go to packed up and left immediately. Kitty, who was at the head table with that spectre when it happened, did not even wait until morning.” Her maester rubbed at his eyes, looking almost as old as Father. “The poor girl. I have heard she has taken another husband and gone to King’s Landing. May her new marriage bring her more happiness than her last.”

As bad as she felt for any woman forced to share her father’s bed, she had not known this Kitty, and couldn’t spare much concern for her prospects. “You were saying..?” she prompted, as gently as she could.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so distressing.” Brenett collected his wits and went on. “To hear Mariya tell it, your father peeled his face away to reveal the visage of a wild young woman. Even younger than yourself, dear girl, and slender as a reed. Kitty thought her an apparation, but she was able to touch her and manipulate objects, so she must be flesh and blood. In any case, she threatened young Kitty and made mention of the Starks, which I believe to have been a ruse.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked, fascinated despite herself. The Starks had ample reason to want her father dead, and were rumored to have mysterious powers, but Ed had confided to her that these “powers” were nothing more than an unusually strong affinity with their wolves.

“Well, for one, why would an assassin reveal who paid them? The fiend took special care not to harm women or children, leaving many witnesses to her crime. She all but said “winter is coming,” before she disappeared. Someone wants us to blame this on the Starks, that much is clear. Perhaps they are a convenient scapegoat. Or perhaps someone wants to prevent a reconciliation.”

“But who would care about that?” Her heart thudded in her chest before she realized why. She could think of one person who would to preserve the rift between the two families. _But that’s an awful thought. Ed would never._

Brenett, lost in thought, had not noticed her sudden stillness. “I was thinking Queen Cersei—but you mustn’t spread that around.” His eyes widened, as if suddenly realizing what treason he’d given voice to. “I only meant, she would have the resources to pay a Faceless Man. And your father was growing restive with her. He wasn’t dying as quickly as she assumed he would. When I pondered who could be behind this scheme—and I did, many nights—I kept asking myself, why let the women and children live? Could be one more finger pointing at the Starks, who have more honor than sense. But it could also mean the assassin was sent by a woman. Cersei, a mother herself, would not have it in her to kill children.”

“That makes sense!” she exclaimed, exhaling a sigh of relief. Yes, it had to be Cersei. Her father had often opined that the Lannisters looked down on him even as they plotted together. And the royal treasury could easily fund these Faceless Men, whoever they were, something she was sure Riverrun’s own coffers would not support. She relaxed a trifle.

“It also occurred to me that your brother Emmon may have some part to play in this farce… or his wife. Lady Genna is Cersei’s aunt, as you may recall. With the grown men of the family dead, her grandson is fourth in line to inherit the Twins, after Walda and Perra—both babes in arms—and Fair Walda, who is sure to marry soon and relinquish the family name.” When he looked at her, his normally cheerful face was grave with concern. “And where was young Tywin on the night this took place?”

“Squiring,” she said slowly. Ty had been taken on as a squire by Lord Lewys Lydden, a Lannister bannerman, shortly before her marriage. She hadn’t spent much time with her cousin—the Lannister Freys tended to look down upon her branch of the family—but wasn’t a bad sort. Quick to jest, even quicker to make up if the object of his joke took offense, and more comfortable on horseback than on foot. He didn’t seem smart enough for intrigue, she recalled; but perhaps his broad, open face hid dark secrets. Or perhaps he hadn’t known.

Brenett shrugged. “All speculation, as I said. In any case, the assassin disappeared in the confusion, but then the Faceless Men are exceedingly difficult to track.”

“And—who are the Faceless Men, again?” she asked, cringing at her own stupidity. Roslin had to remind herself that this was her friendly old Maester she was talking to, not her father or the judgmental Jolyon.

“Assassins from Braavos, my dear, known for wearing the faces of other men, and their astonishing skill at remaining undetected. They ask a high price, I hear, too dear for anyone in these lands—and indeed, the North. Another reason I do not believe the Starks are behind this treachery. For what it’s worth, Mariya says the woman did not have a Braavosi accent. Could be another trick, or perhaps the Faceless Woman’s skills stretch to tongues and voices.”

Roslin smoothed her skirts, turning over Brenett’s revelations in her mind, which felt full to bursting. If she could only have a moment to herself to _think_! She’d been good at wooden puzzles, cheerfully fitting together the pieces with her child’s hands, but the riddles of men’s motivations remained a mystery to her. Jaime Lannister’s sudden appearance at Riverrun, and Edmure’s subsequent letter summoning her North, was already quite enough for her to be getting on with.

“You have given me much to think about,” she sighed. “And I am already weary from the journey. Would the Twins be able to support my people overnight? We head north to meet my husband in the morning, but the journey has been hard, and the causeway is so long…” The Riverlanders wouldn’t like this, she knew—another mark against her—but grief was tiring, and she couldn’t imagine journeying one more step today. And perhaps they would secretly welcome one more night spent on the soil of the Riverlands, even if it was in sight of the wretched Twins. The Neck was not a place where they could expect welcome.

“Aye, I think we can do that.” He stroked his chin in thought. “I don’t believe we can offer a feast—”

“Nor do I think my people would be willing to attend one,” she said, more sharply than she intended. “Please have my attendants set up with rooms, those who will take one, and what food can be spared brought to the travelers. I’ll join them all in time for dinner, outside. Let them all see me eating amongst them in my tent, instead of holed up in the home of my childhood.”

“A wise decision, my lady,” said Brenett, and inclined his head the way he used to do to Father. An uncomfortable sensation prickled the back of her neck—she would swear her hair stood on end. _Is he… is he taking orders from me?_ She knew from experience that he would do anything she asked, out of love, but he’d never deferred to her wishes in quite this formal fashion before. Like she was a great Lady.

He seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. “The Twins have felt the dearth of leadership of late, my lady,” he confessed quietly. “Everyone who remains is too young or weak to flee, with no outside support. Ser Aemon and a few of your sisters have made futile efforts to claim the castle, but each have detractors of their own, and we devolve into petty squabbling. You will have noticed, I think, that we’ve been allowed to talk here undisturbed for a quarter of an hour?” Roslin nodded. “When was the last time you remember _anyone_ finding a moment’s peace and quiet at the Twins?”

 _Well…_ Roslin glanced around herself. In her joy at seeing Maester Brenett she hadn’t taken much notice of their surroundings, but now she saw the spiderwebs decorating the corners of the Hall, the dust laying thick underfoot. She recalled Aemon’s curt manner on the walk over. She’d taken it for cheek… but perhaps it had been caution. “Where is everyone?” she asked, her voice ringing in the stillness.

“You’ve seen everyone who remains. The eastern castle has been shut up since your Father’s death, but for a token garrison. There’s no cause to heat two castles anymore, not with winter coming on, and the crannogmen have bestirred themselves to heckle us. We’ve spied their scouts as far south as the cornfield, and Arlan Greengood boasts openly from his seat at Lantern Isle that no Frey will pass through the Neck unscathed. He requires a firm hand to put him in his place, and Lord Reed isn’t the man to wield it. I had hoped one of your sisters would emerge victorious from our in-fighting, so we could rally around her, but…” He sighed and strode away between the long tables leading to the dais and her Father’s seat. The afternoon shadows swallowed his round form. She thought he was leaving her with that grim thought, until he turned to face her again at the foot of her father’s great carved oaken chair, face obscured. Her heart skipped a beat—for one moment she feared the Faceless Woman was here with her. But the voice that spoke to her was only the comforting rumble of her beloved old Maester. “The seat of Lord Walder has been vacant since his death. I think it is time for his daughter to sit it. You came with an army at your back and an heir at your feet. The chair is yours, if you only reach out and take it.”

 _Me??_ Better Fair Walda should do it—with her quick wit and bold manners, she could attract a worthy husband. Or young Walda of the Hunter Freys could be raised to ladyship, with her mother Janyce to serve as regent. _But Maester Brenett will not support a woman of the Vale, or a man from outside the family. He will follow me… and likely the Septon will as well._ Roslin looked around, searching automatically for her husband’s counsel—but she was alone. All the men who had ever plotted her course were absent. Only Brenett remained, and he had never told her what to do.

“Throw the chair on the fire,” she suggested, after a moment’s indecision. “My lord father may sit on it in hell, if it please him.”

She fancied she saw the dark shadow cloud Brenett’s expression again, but then his face split in a wide smile. “Very well, my lady. And what will you do next?”

“Lead,” she said, folding her hands behind her back where the shaking could not be seen. _Ed, forgive me. I had no choice._ “Raise the banner of Tully over the castles— _both_ of them. I’ll take my dinner on the lawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the early post, I'm going to be out of town this weekend and I wanted to make sure it was ready to go.  
> The last scene of this chapter was one of the very first events I planned out. It's been over a year in the making! The entire fic grew out of seeds planted in this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it.  
> We'll visit King's Landing (and a few other locations in the south 👀) after this, but in a few chapters we'll return to Winterfell and find out what the Others have been up to all this time. Remember them? 😂


	13. The Hand of the Queen II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qyburn pays a visit to Yara. Cersei introduces the concept of a breakfast meeting to King's Landing.

The hand gripping his arm was strong. Red talons sliced into his skin, beads of blood springing up in their wake, almost beautiful in contrast to his pallid, sunless flesh. The power of the human body never failed to astonish him. Qyburn lifted the hand, not indelicately, and placed it in a wooden box under his desk. He could still hear it scrabbling for him even with the lid closed.

The Queen’s special project was progressing rapidly, oh yes, and this latest development was most promising. As Hand, he’d been present for the usurper queen’s visit to the dragonpit, bringing with her a creature out of myth and legend. The wight Sandor Clegane had cut in two… simply astounding, the way the human body clung to life like that, even after the soul had fled. His own attempt at reanimation seemed clumsy in comparison. Ser Strong would be a poor approximation of a warrior if he had not been so massive in life, he was too dull-witted, too slow, awkward and unnatural. If Jon Snow was telling the truth, the recently deceased could be reanimated immediately, with no alteration to their outward appearance except, perhaps, a change in eye color. A minor detail; who noticed the color of a man’s eye? And the way it had _moved_ … so lifelike, not at all like the shambling, stiff movements of Ser Strong. It was well that the usurper queen did not realize the opportunity handed to her by these wights; if she had an ounce of sense, she would be trying to harness this power, not eradicate it. Qyburn remembered the maester who now served Winterfell from his abortive training at the Citadel—Wolkan. A garrulous man, bright, but too sheeplike in his obedience to authority to progress the cause of science. Wolkan would happily _discuss_ any subject under the sun over a cup of ale, brow furrowed and thumbs twiddling as they delved into the deeper mysteries of right and wrong, good and evil, science and religion. But when Qyburn would press him for details, the how-to and what-for of the subject, he’d hastily end the conversation with a “but of course, this is all academic,” and a shrug. No, Wolkan lacked the initiative for any intensive study of the wights and how they came to be, and there they were lucky. If another man had taken Wolkan’s position as maester, the usurper queen would’ve come marching down from the north with three adult dragons, Unsullied, a Dothraki hoard, and tens of thousands of dead at her back. Even Cersei would’ve stood no chance then. Funny how life handed you these little triumphs when you least expected them.

And Qyburn was man enough to admit defeat when he saw it. The wights were superior in every way to Ser Strong, there was no arguing it. His experiments had produced a workable first draft—even admirable, perhaps, if only for the dearth of resources available—but Ser Strong left much to be desired. If he could only work out how it was done! For the first time he wished he had joined the Night’s Watch, as offered, instead of losing his chain. The library at Castle Black doubtless held a cache of valuable information about the wights and their origins. Who was the maester there, he wondered. Godwin? Or had he been assigned to Deepwood Motte? Somewhere cold, anyway. If only Ramsey Snow— _Bolton_ —were still alive, he would know; they’d enjoyed a vigorous correspondence before his untimely death.

Sighing, he closed his ledger and rolled his stiff neck around in a vain attempt to loosen his muscles. A bone-deep tiredness always came over him at this time of day. A man his age really ought to take it easy, work less hours, but there was nothing for it… unless… mayhaps his research could benefit him too. He’d give much and more for the wight’s supple movements.

He lifted the box below his desk and heaved the leather strap over his shoulder. It was time to feed the prisoner.

Ellaria Sand had submitted to death almost gratefully when her time came. When Qyburn made the purpose of his visit plain, she had stretched out her arm eagerly, offering the tanned skin of her forearm to his blade. She’d barely whimpered when her hand was cleaved from her body, just clutched the ruined arm to her chest and wept tears of grief. For her cooperation, Qyburn had allowed her to expire of blood loss rather than take the place of Septa Unella.

Lady Yara had not yet reached that state of supplication. On his first visit, she spat at him, bringing curses of the Seven and the Drowned God both down upon his head. All the prisoners did that at first, so he left her dinner at her door without comment. He had come back to find it splattered on the wall. The second time had been similar, but he’d caught a hungry look in her eye as she rained epithets upon him and his family, and when he returned, the bread and meat were gone.

On the third day, she had collected her night water in the soup bowl and flung it at him when he entered the cell.

As the weeks and months passed, though, her lively spirit dulled, and she began to take less and less food. She no longer spoke, though her eyes still followed him as he moved about the tiny cell. Often she sat in the exact same position from one day to the next, far away and untouchable, perhaps imagining the reward that awaited her in the halls of the Drowned God. Qyburn had been through this before, with his queen, and knew Lady Yara was close to breaking. 

One of the jailers waited for him in the usual spot next to the staircase leading down to Level Two, where Lady Yara was kept. The cells were dark, cold, damp, but the prisoners here still had much to be thankful for. They were blessed with torches, and could sit dreaming of seeing the sun again as the light flickered and danced through the bars. An enterprising man or woman could even supplement their thankless meal by catching one of the mice that ran rampant in the dungeons, or the many water beetles that fled to higher ground in wet weather. Those on Levels Three and Four were not so lucky.

“Who will it be today, m’lord Hand?” the jailer queried, rising from his step and puffing up like a blowfish at Qyburn’s approach. He cringed at the man’s overly familiar tone. All of his Queen’s staff were so eager to please these days, it was embarrassing. He ought to speak with her about that. “The Tyrell woman?”

“Lady Yara, I think.” _Let me in, and leave me in peace._

But after the door was unlocked, the man hooked his ring of identical iron kings to his belt and made to follow Qyburn down the stairs to the lower level. He suppressed a groan. Sighing, he ventured, “Has the Lady been eating?”

“Hardly at all, m’lord Hand, it won’t be long now if we can’t convince her to think better of her fast. Though I think she does still take some water,” he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone.

“And her mood?”

“Low. I can’t see as how anyone could feel otherwise, in her state.”

“Pardon?” Lady Yara was no worse off than any of their other prisoners, and rather better than some of the smallfolk; she was in no danger of freezing or starving to death, if she would just lift a hand to eat.

“That Dornishwoman’s death, m’lord, she took it a bit hard. The two of them came in together, think they were friends. They would yell to each other sometimes.” Qyburn didn’t like that. Under no circumstances should the prisoners be permitted to speak to each other. That was how treasons were planned.

“You mustn’t let the prisoners communicate with one another. If they’re close enough to speak, they need to be moved further apart. Why haven’t you brought this to my attention before?” As he said this, they dismounted the staircase and entered the long, narrow hall from which all of the Level Two cells sprouted, mushroomlike. The ubiquitous mice, eyes grown unnaturally large and bulbous in the subterranean darkness, fled before the weak light of their torch.

“But I have, m’lord Hand,” said the man in a tone of surprise. “It’s not that they’re close together or nothin’, it’s just this pipe—”

“Maester!” A pale spider of a hand shot through the bars on their left, fingers grasping at his robes. He jumped and stumbled, his heart pounding a drumbeat against his ribs. Last time he was here, that cell was empty. “Good maester, please, a word—tell the Queen I didn’t mean nothing by that song I sang about her, it was only a jest—the crowds pay me better if I put in the bit about her and Queen Margaery, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it! Tell the Queen I’ll leave the city, I’ll swear an oath to her, she can take my tongue if she wants— _please_ , Maester…”

They passed by, the man’s hand reaching after them feebly. In the light thrown from the torch, he saw it was covered in scabs. “Please…”

The jailer chuckled. “Ignore that one, m’lord, he’s only been here a few days. Doesn’t know how things are done yet.”

At long last they reached Lady Yara’s cell. In the sick yellow glow, he could see but little; her bowl and cup remained where the jailer had set them that morning, untouched. In the furthest recesses of the cell, he could make out a slightly darker form, hunched against unseen enemies. “Leave us,” he commanded the jailer, holding out his hand for the keys. “I’ll lock up.”

“Are—are you sure, m’lord?” Behind his placid expression, a war was being waged between the jailer’s deference to authority and his instinct to protect a superior from harm. “This one’s feisty. Maybe I should wait—”

Qyburn cut him off. “Feisty or not, she’s in chains. If I should have need of you, I’ll yell.”

The doubt left the man’s eyes, to be replaced by a sort of fiendish _knowing_. “Understood, m’lord. I’ll not leave the range of your voice, though.” He half-bowed, then thought better of it, and nodded his head in Qyburn’s direction a few times before leaving in the direction they had come. The pitter-patter of his footsteps grew faint.

 _He thinks I mean to molest her._ Qyburn smacked his lips in distaste. Nothing could be further from the truth. Even in the days when he had been willing to endure the company of the fairer sex, the lady Yara would not have been to his taste. Her figure was not bad, but her face had grown hard from a lifetime of living like a man. Women were meant to be pliant, soft—this one made a mockery of the very title of “Lady.”

Still, best not to begin by showing her disrespect. She was a highborn woman, and the niece of their future King, no matter her appearance. “Lady Yara,” he ventured, walking as close to her as he dared. “Do you know why I have paid you a visit?”

“Have you come to rape me?” she asked, taking the same mildly interested tone an innkeeper would use to ask about his night’s sleep. Her gaze fixed on his feet. She made no move to fight him, just sat there, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. “Get on with it, if you still can.”

“You mistake me, my lady. I’ve only come to inquire about your health.”

“My health?” A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “I’ve felt better.”

“Prison doesn’t usually bring out the best in a person,” he agreed, kneeling. Her eyes finally met his as he sank to her level. Not daring to break eye contact, he reached out a wary hand to grip her jaw—he would not put it past her to try and bite him. She allowed him to turn her face this way and that, though not without a shudder. Her flinty gaze did not leave his face.

“It cannot be confirmed without a more thorough examination, but you appear malnourished—gaunt, a rough complexion, dull eyes. I daresay you’re experiencing some hair loss, as well. Perhaps dehydration…” He let go of her face and rose suddenly. Yara tipped her face up to follow his movements. “I know imprisonment is uncomfortable, but we do not want you to die, my lady. Your uncle has impressed upon all of us that you are to be treated gently as long as you cooperate. He hopes that one day you can be released into his custody, to live out the remainder of your life a respected and cherished member of his household—”

“A hostage, you mean.” Her tone was level, but the arms wrapped around her shins were stiff with fury. _Interesting._ As inconvenient as he found her resistance, it was promising that she was so resilient. He had only to stretch out his finger to prod the soft spot—her uncle Euron—and she flared up near as brightly as his Queen.

“Well, yes—a hostage, if you want to call it that. But a living one. Euron may yet allow you to marry and have a family, if you wish it. Your brother too, although—ah—I understand the second part may be beyond his capabilities.”

“It’s beyond mine, as well,” she answered flatly.

“Be that as it may. Your father’s youngest brother, I think, still survives? Don’t you think it would bring him joy to have his family around him in his declining years?”

“It would not bring Uncle any joy to know his niece was a worthless craven.” But her voice was not so firm anymore. Perhaps he should mention to Cersei that it would be well to place eyes and ears around Aeron Greyjoy. “I’m not going to bargain with you. Kill me if you want, but otherwise leave me.” And with that, she turned away, ending their stilted conversation.

Qyburn sighed. It was so much easier to work with a willing participant. He had rather hoped she had learned something from Ellaria. But, needs must. With a groan, he slung his burden to the floor and stooped to open it. His prisoner’s eyes followed him in grim fascination. No doubt she expected a blade, a hammer, some crude instrument of torture. He could see it as she braced her feet against the floor, set her jaw to steel herself. When he drew the hand from the box, there was a bare second of disbelief, then a wave of true horror washed over her face.

“My lady,” he said regretfully. “If you won’t eat of your own free will, I must take it upon myself to ensure that you are fed.” He advanced on his cringing prisoner, the bowl in his left hand, Ellaria’s wrist in his right.

He found his queen in the map room, astride the Reach. One foot was planted on Brightwater Keep, the other on Horn Hill as she sipped from her teacup and glared down at Highgarden. He saw that the paint around Highgarden was scuffed, as if she had been kicking at the map in her frustration. An assortment of guests and attendants clustered around, shooting wary glances at each other. It looked like they might have been there a long time.

“Your Grace,” he offered, by way of an introduction. “You sent for me?”

“Yes,” she mused, “Though we began to despair of your appearance.” But, to his surprise, she turned to him and smiled. “But I’ve a mind to forgive you… for now. While you were messing about with bones and dust in your dungeons, I took it upon myself to make plans for the future of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I am eager to hear them, Your Grace,” he said, retreating to his favorite chair, the one whose legs spanned the Bay of Ice. But Cersei made no move to either join him in the secluded corner or herd her companions across the marches into Dorne and out the map room’s door. “Your Grace?”

“I do not recall giving you leave to sit,” she said coolly. A pretty young wench in a slate-grey gown giggled behind her.

 _The queen must have her little game,_ he conceded, and heaved himself back to his feet. “Forgive me. A man my age may forget his courtesies, out of weariness.”

“See that you get more sleep and remember them next time.” But her mouth relaxed, and he knew he was forgiven. Gesturing at their unexplained companions, she said, “You remember Ser Justin Massey, I trust? And Kitty Haigh, my lady-in-waiting?”

He nodded at them both in turn, Ser Justin returning his greeting with a respectful bow, Kitty with a twitching movement that might have passed for a curtsy in her Riverlands home. With them stood the young lady who’d giggled at him before and a stunning blonde who was the image of Cersei (less twenty years or so.) A surly-looking man he remembered from Tyrion’s time at court was the only one seated, his feet up on the banquet table that had been erected in the Narrow Sea. There was an air of unwholesome excitement about him, though the Queen was ignoring him completely. A motley assortment. Qyburn could not fathom why they had been summoned, but it was clear they would be joining him and the Queen for the duration.

“I think you might also recognize my brothers’ former companion, Bronn. _Ser_ Bronn, he says.” _As if waving a sword at the Blackwater excuses his origins,_ her smug face seemed to say. He did remember Ser Bronn, as it happened; trailing Tyrion through the Red Keep and King’s Landing like some kind of monstrously distended shadow.

“Quite so.”

“And the ladies are Denyse Stonetree, my newest lady-in-waiting, and cousin Cerenna,” she reeled off. “Come, let us break our fast together.”

They shared honeyed porridge, eggs cooked with onions and sweet peppers and diced ham, and fried dough stuffed with apples and cinnamon with strong black tea to wash it all down. Cersei and Ser Bronn set to their feast with hearty appetities while everyone else picked at the food before them, too wary and wrong-footed to muster any hunger. For his part, Qyburn stuck to the porridge. The salty smell of the ham turned his stomach, and the rich dough would no doubt trouble his bowels and consign him to the privy for half the day. Lady Kitty, he saw, barely touched her plate, preferring to use her hands to wring her long braid.

As it happened, Lady Stonetree spoke enough for both of them. “It’s _such_ an honor to meet you all,” she gushed, “I’ve longed to come to King’s Landing since I was a girl. I used to beg Father to send me to Court, or find me a husband in the Crownlands. He never paid me any heed, of course—who among you would take an Ironborn woman to wife??—but cousin Euron remembered my dream and sent for me when he won the Queen’s heart.” She beamed, her round cheeks growing red as two windfall apples. “And now I wait upon the first ruling queen of Westeros! What _would_ Father say to see me now. Perhaps I will give up my quest for a man of the green lands, and settle for a woman of the Red Keep!” The redness spread to her neck. Against his better judgment, he felt his curiosity pricked. Qyburn had not known any woman of the hard, remote Iron Islands to blush quite so freely, or entertain in such an easy, offhanded way. Anomolies had always piqued his scientific curiosity.

“It’s a pleasure, my lady,” intoned Ser Justin with his customary oily courtesy.

“Well met,” agreed Kitty politely. Ser Bronn was too occupied with his eggs to say anything at all.

“I’ve not brought any of you here to seek husbands or tell tales,” Cersei snapped. “The Iron Islands do not interest me, having already won their gratitude by taking their Lord Reaper for my consort. Perhaps we might discuss the Stormlands and the Reach some time before lunch begins, since I do not intend to feed you a second time.”

“Ha!” Ser Bronn chuckled, his first contribution to the conversation. Bits of ham flew from his mouth. _The cheek!_ The sellsword was playing a dangerous game indeed, to mock the Queen to her face. _But Tyrion did not often spend time with witless men,_ he mused, and that troubled him.

The withering look Cersei gave Bronn might have set a lesser man aflame. “This concerns you, _Ser_ Bronn, you would do well to keep quiet and thank me afterward.” She turned her attention to Qyburn, conveying her annoyance with one twitch of an eyebrow. “That foolishness with Lords Pommingham and Varner in the throne room reminded me that we are currently absent two Lords Paramount and one Prince of Dorne. Stannis left no clear successor, and the last Tyrell remains a permanent guest in the Red Keep. I mean to do something about that.”

That did not explain their guests; no one present in the map room that morning hailed from any of those regions, or had a say in matters of law. Surely she did not mean to grant Ser Justin and Ser Bronn seats on the Small Council?? “I confess I do not follow you.”

“I trust you remember that the usurper made enemies of House Tarly by burning Lord Randyll and his heir when they refused to bend the knee?” Cersei sipped her tea, trying and almost succeeding to look like she was enjoying it as much as wine. “She may have eliminated one of my best military commanders, but her folly has driven the remaining Tarlys into my arms. They have been staunch allies, why not raise _them_ to Lord Paramount status? The Tyrells were no more than stewards themselves, as they often liked to boast.” Cerenna inserted a very regal _tut, tut_ here, allowing Cersei a moment to clear her throat. He wondered if they had practiced that. “The faithless Florents will flock to my cause if one of their own is raised to Lady Paramount, and with the Tyrells dead and the Redwynes disgraced, who will dare to challenge the appointment?”

“You—said _Lady_ Paramount, your grace?”

“The other son is pledged to the Night’s Watch, leaving Randyll’s daughter Talla as sole heir to Horn Hill. She is yet single in her mid-twenties, and ripe for marriage. Lady Talla will be so grateful for my favor, she would never think to refuse a betrothal proposed by her rightful queen. She may even thank me for making her a match with a man proven in battle and strong enough to protect her holdings.”

“Which is where I come in, m’lord Hand.” Bronn leered, picking his teeth.

Qyburn blanched. “You suggest raising a _sellsword_ to Lord Paramount?” It was unheard of. The Reach would rise up and join the Stormlands in their fury.

“An unorthodox solution, I admit, but one that will send the right signal to my supporters. Declare yourself an ally of the Crown and reap the benefits, no matter what station you were born to.” She afforded Ser Bronn a single nod, as great a favor as she ever bestowed on someone born so low.

Well… that was true enough. House Tarly was old and noble, older than House Tyrell, to hear some tell it; and Lord Randyll and Lady Melessa inspired respect in the Reach. Many and more would be willing to accept their daughter as their Lady. The Fossoways could cause some mischief if they so chose, or the Oakhearts… but the Hightowers of late had preferred to sit in the cart rather than drive the horse. So long as their iron grip on Oldtown was undisturbed, they might comply. Bronn _was_ a strong commander, no matter his other dubious talents, and would doubtless find running Horn Hill enough of a chore without meddling in Oldtown. He might suffice as the solution to their problem, for the nonce. “I’ll prepare a letter to the ladies Tarly, your grace.”

“Arrange a generous wedding gift, as well—some of the plainer jewels from the royal collection will serve. And five hundred head of cattle. That should replenish the worst of their losses at the hands of the usurper.” Cersei covered her self-satisfied smile with her teacup. “Ser Bronn, you set out for Horn Hill in a moon’s turn, no sooner. Let it not be said I forced this marriage on Lady Talla with no warning. The niceties must be observed, though she will find she has little choice in the matter.”

“And what of Highgarden, your grace?” Bronn’s chair tipped back precariously, his expression one of boredom, not concern.

“You and your betrothed may have it, if you wish,” she said dismissively. “Or you may stay at Horn Hill. It matters little to me. Get out of my sight.”

As Bronn loped off, Qyburn smiled. His Queen was still a woman, but smarter than most. Euron did not properly appreciate what waited for him in King’s Landing.

“I thought he’d never leave,” hissed Cerenna when he had gone. “Cousin, I love you well, but to keep such company…”

“Sometimes a Queen must descend into the muck to pry a gem out of it. Though the necessity of it has not made his presence more palatable,” she muttered. “Consider it a lesson, coz. May it serve you well when you become a great Lady yourself. Ser Justin—”

“Yes?” he answered, a little too quickly. There was a feverish gleam in his eye that reminded Qyburn of petitioners before the Iron Throne. _Cersei will not give you what you seek, any more than she does those supplicants,_ he wanted to warn him, but it was too late; with the talk of betrothals, Justin was already lost in daydreams of cloaking the fair Cerenna, taking her to wife, and making a slow progress across the Riverlands to his new seat at Casterly Rock.

“—I entrust you to escort my own dear cousin to the Gates of the Moon. The mountain passes are no longer navigable at this late hour of autumn, so a ship must serve. There is a cog in the harbor bound for Gulltown in two days’ time; make sure you are on board.”

It was a shame he liked Ser Justin, for Qyburn otherwise would have wanted to laugh at his look of sheer gobsmacked disappointment. The man was a lord by birth and a knight of the Seven Kingdoms by the grace of King Robert, but even he was no match for a woman of Casterly Rock, especially one so comely. Only one of the richest families of the realm or a Lord Paramount would do for Cerenna. And talking of Lords Paramount…

“You have her in mind for Robin Arryn, my queen.” For what else could it be?

“Just so, my lord Hand, and I’m ever so happy.” Cerenna was even lovelier in the full flush of excitement. Her blond curls bounced prettily about her face as she prattled on about wedding gowns and babies and whatever fluff young ladies filled their heads with. It was a fine rehearsal for her first meeting with Lord Robin, he thought, for no young man could look upon her and come away unaffected. _Why, even I might have been enchanted, if I had met her in the foolishness of my youth._

“Yes, and we are eager to welcome Lord Arryn back into the queen’s peace, aren’t we?” Cersei searched absently on the table for her teacup; she never liked to smile without a prop at hand. It was beginning to look forced. Qyburn took pity on her and nudged the cup closer.

“I shall make him a loyal wife and you a loyal vassal, cousin. You may rely on me!” Cerenna beamed. _She is not the image of Cersei after all,_ he mused, _but she does resemble Myrcella._ With her long golden curls and pert speech, she could’ve passed for the princess’ sister. Again he was reminded of Tyrion, and shifted uneasily in his seat. He had always heard that the Princess took more after her uncle the Imp in temperament than either the queen or Ser Jaime, and he devoutly hoped Cerenna was not the same. _Even from a thousand leagues away, he plagues us._

“My queen, if I may speak…” Ser Justin began. His look of perplexity was well hidden now, though he knew it still lurked.

“You may.” She liked that, he saw. _Cersei enjoys her little games._

“I congratulate the Lady Cerenna on her upcoming nuptials, but what part am I to play? It would be more customary to send Ser Daven to arrange her marriage, or your uncle Damon—”

“Which is exactly why I will send neither,” said Cersei with false sweetness. “Do you take me for a fool? His queen I may be, but Robin Arryn has no cause to love me, not after that business with his father. He would never consent to an official visit. Defer, defer, defer, just like Lady Lysa. But he is not so bold as to risk turning away a member of the royal family in her hour of need.”

Qyburn’s cheeks felt oddly tight, and it was a moment before he realized he was smiling. It was always a joy to see Cersei in her element. She, too, must have weighed Cerenna’s fair face and sweet disposition against Lord Arryn’s callow youth and found him wanting. Put the two of them in a room together and a hasty betrothal would be the work of a moment, no matter how he felt about the girl’s family.

“The queen has arranged for a convenient shipwreck,” Cerenna chirped. “Off Gulltown. You are to rescue me, Ser Justin, and take me to safety at the Gates of the Moon! There I will encounter Lord Robin, and make him love me.”

“Shipwreck?” Color was returning to Justin’s face. Perhaps an idea of winning renown for Cerenna’s rescue had entered his thick head.

“The cargo you will sail with is little more than empty crates and old rotten tapestries,” Cersei assured him. “The captain will be well paid for his trouble. Rather too handsomely, come to that, but we are in need of haste. It is only a matter of time before the usurper realizes she can bind Lord Robin to her cause with the hand of Arya Stark, and ensure his support in the wars to come.”

“Won’t a shipwreck be dangerous, though, your grace?” asked Lady Kitty in a wispy voice. Qyburn started; he had forgotten she was there.

“Oh, it’s all been well orchestrated,” Cersei answered vaguely. “The captain assures me Cerenna and Justin will be put safely aboard a skiff before the cog is sunk. There will be no danger.”

Lady Stonetree, who had no doubt been raised on the deck of a ship, emitted a polite cough into her hand. He was inclined to agree with her. Every man and woman of the Iron Islands knew the sea was nothing to trifle with.

“And I… just happened to be aboard the same vessel as Lady Cerenna, your grace?” asked Justin, the role of rescuer visibly growing on him.

“It will be days before you reach the Vale, surely the two of you can come up with a reasonable story in that time. Unless I have asked the wrong man?”

“Not at all, I am honored to be trusted with such an important task. Do you have more orders for me, before I make the arrangments?” Justin had composed his face and manner enough to relegate his recent astonishment at the proposal to dim memory. _Give him another few days and he will have us believing the idea was his own._ That could be a useful skill at court. He made a mental note to make better use of Justin when he returned from the Gates of the Moon.

“No more, except to remember at all times that your visit to the Vale is a happy accident. And it would not hurt for _you_ to charm Lord Robin as well. Lord Baelish’s letters spoke of a dismal, decrepit court peopled with withered crones and men who have taken leave of their wits. He will not have other young men around him for sport.”

“Understood. Thank you, your grace.”

“If your venture is successful, I will _think_ about returning your family lands to you. Go, now, and remember that.” He took his leave.

Which left Qyburn alone with the queen and her pack of twittering girls. In the absence of other men, it struck him how odd it was for her to choose ladies-in-waiting so much younger than herself. Kitty was not yet eighteen and Lady Stonetree only a few years older. They were more of an age with Princess Myrcella. To compare their young, unfinished bodies to the Queen’s more dignified personage… it was unseemly, yes, it must be stopped. She couldn’t rely on girls for wise counsel and discretion. Mayhaps he should raise the idea of bringing a more mature woman to court… someone like Alysanne Lefford, maybe, or a lady of the Vale to strengthen the new alliance… Gyllian Grafton was about the right age… yes, that would do. Neither of them was like to screech at the merest eye-flicker from handsome Ser Justin.

“My queen,” he intoned over a fresh burst of giggles, “Might we take counsel alone?” The Stonetree girl’s nervous excited chatter was starting to make his head ache. Girls in _his_ day had known to be seen and not heard. Cerenna’s bubbleheadedness could be ignored in favor of her other charms, but this Denyse had not the beauty or station in life to allow a lapse in her courtesy and deportment, only the sort of fresh-scrubbed, pink-cheeked appeal that would fade before she reached five-and-twenty.

For once his queen took pity on him. “Kitty, Denyse, go. Cousin, we’ll sup together this evening, yes?”

“Yes, your grace,” she recited, and the two Lannister women exchanged air kisses.

When the last of the girls’ skirts swished around the corner, Cersei made a beeline for the bottle of wine Bronn had opened and left to air on the table. “Don’t look at me with that old man’s face,” she scowled, pouring a generous glug for herself and a rather less robust portion for him. “I have had enough tea already to float the royal fleet, and thirst for something strong enough to drive away their drivel.”

“You’ll have no word of reproach from me. Drink up,” he said, and made a note to hide the wine bottle at the first opportunity.

Cersei lowered herself delicately into her chair. Though her belly had barely begun to swell, he had noticed her gait had changed, and her feet would be troubling her. It was just as well to him. Why stand when you could sit?

“There remains the matter of the Stormlands.” Qyburn took his meagre portion of wine and had a sip. Not bad stuff. Too rich for that sellsword, else the bottle would already be empty. “Does your grace have a plan of action for that as well, or…?”

“I do. Does that bother you? To not be consulted?” Cersei’s friendly tone did not fool him. If there was one thing she enjoyed more than wine, it was being reminded that she was Queen.

“Not at all. I am here to _aid_ you, not plot your course.”

He was awarded a smile that might well have been genuine. “It pleases me to hear you speak sense. The last Hands—the Imp, Ned Stark, that ghoul Jon Arryn—they all wanted what I have, even Father. Remember your place, Qyburn, and you have nothing to fear from me. Forget it, and I will send you back from whence you came… wherever that is.”

He couldn’t have her pursuing that line of inquiry. “What decision have you made concerning the appointment for Storm’s End?” His palms had suddenly gone clammy. _It’s the damp,_ he told himself. “One of the Baratheons of Galeston?” He could not remember any of their names. They were too low to call at court, little more than smallfolk after the generations-old split with the main branch of the family. “Or is there a Storm you wish to legitimize?”

“Oh, no, most of Robert’s creatures did not survive to adulthood.” It was not necessary to ask why. “There was a blacksmith here in the city, once, but he could not even read… and he’s thrown his lot in with the Starks, or so my spies in the North tell me. He will pay. The other one, that he fathered on some poor wench in the Vale, she’s some sort of mule girl. That was before our marriage, so I haven’t troubled her.”

“Kindly done. The Vale will love you better for it.” For he’d heard chirpings of Mya Stone, too, from his own little birds, and knew the young Lord Arryn was fond of her.

“It’s a shame Stannis did not leave me his daughter,” she went on, as if he had not spoken. “I’d have liked to put Shireen on the Storm Seat. Watching all the storm lords dance to her tune and vie for her greyscaled hand would amuse me a great deal. But the wretched girl is dead, and as neither of Robert’s brothers could find their way to a woman’s bed without a map, there are no appropriate Storms. I bestowed Storm’s End upon Andrew Estermont, some… ten days ago, now. He could not have set out for his new seat any faster if he flew on dragon wings. I do not blame him. Greenstone is a dismal place.”

The man had not come to court while Qyburn was there, so he could not imagine why Cersei had chosen him for such a task, except that he was Robert’s cousin. “I’m not familiar with the man. Does he have any particular qualities that make him well suited for a lordship?” _Or do you have other plans for him?_ he wanted to ask.

“He’s as different from Robert as night is from day, and that is qualification enough.”

He did not stay long with the queen after that. The struggle with Yara that morning had near exhausted him, and the last of his strength had been sapped by Lady Stonetree’s irrepressible cheer. And there was much to do, after Cersei’s sweeping series of appointments. Power suited her. Doubts about Ser Bronn still nibbled away at him, but her decision about Lord Estermont was sound, and the scheme to marry Lord Arryn into the family positively inspired.

His thoughts of a Lannister-Arryn alliance kept him occupied all the way back to his dungeon, where the far less appealing prospect of Ser Strong awaited him. To his disdain, his creation had entered his innermost rooms, the sacrosanct chamber where he carried out his most difficult works. Ser Strong had been ordered more than once not to violate the privacy of his dungeons, but an order from anyone except Cersei might be disregarded, as he well knew. He could do with another reminder.

Ser Strong waited silently against the back wall, between a crumbled bust of Jaehaerys I and the bleached skull of a nameless soldier from the Neck. The black cat that prowled his dungeons for scraps of meat sat on a shelf at Ser Strong’s elbow, hissing in fury and swiping at his elbow with one fat paw. Ser did not bestir himself.

“You’re not allowed in my chambers, Ser Strong. We’ve discussed this,” he explained patiently. He ignored the prickle of embarrassment that ran up the back of his neck. He’d been proud of Ser Strong when he’d first introduced his creation to his Queen—now, faced with the far superior abilities of the wights of the North, his pride seemed silly and inconsequential. Every foot put wrong, every command disobeyed only served to shame him more. “You are to keep to the ground floor, and the yard, and anywhere else your Queen commands. There is nothing in my chambers to interest or excite you, I don’t know why you keep returning.”

Ser Strong did not move. Even his eyes were still, unblinking. The cat hissed.

“Go on then. Go and serve your Queen.” He gestured towards the door, trying to usher the behemoth out. Nothing.

Sighing, Qyburn cast his gaze about the room. Ser Strong responded well to physical prompts, but his own waning strength barely registered to the creature anymore. His eyes caught on the broom he used to sweep up after his messier trials. He seized it. “Out, out with you! Go on!” He raised the broom and put on his sternest face, waving it once or twice in Ser Strong’s direction.

At last his creation took his meaning, and shuffled out the door. To do what, the gods only knew. Nothing that concerned him. He rubbed his eyes and sank down into his chair, the placated cat pouncing on his lap. “Good puss,” he murmured, scratching the cat’s ears. He leaned the broom against the wall, and relaxed into his chair. Time, at last, to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting off-schedule again, sorry about that. My husband and I are taking a long-awaited vacation to Outer Banks and we're leaving tomorrow, so I won't have time to post. (We are taking all appropriate safety precautions ☺️) I am going to sit on the porch of our rental and read and stuff my face with seafood and do absolutely nothing else.  
> Next week we will be visiting a new location, and meeting our penultimate POV character!


	14. Talla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talla struggles with the pressure of becoming Lady Tarly. House Florent throws its support behind a new Queen.

The night was brilliant with hundreds of stars. The Galley, unusually bright, guided sailors home from their voyages a hundred leagues distant, as the opalescent light of the moon shone down upon her father’s lands. On a night such as this, Talla could almost feel that everything was right with the world. It wasn’t, but she could pretend until morning.

She was sitting up to watch the game around Horn Hill come and drink from the pool in front of the castle, as she often did when the moon was full. The animals never visited in the daytime, and she missed seeing them, listening to them crunch through the leaves, smelling their shaggy coats—her father had not allowed her to run and tumble freely in the woods for many years. Dickon was still allowed in the woods, though, to hunt, and sometimes he would ask Father if Talla could bring them refreshments at midday. He didn’t really want snacks, though. She knew he only asked so she could ride out and meet them.

But, no—Dickon would never ask her for snacks again. He was dead.

 _Not now,_ she lectured the grief that welled up inside her. _I’m enjoying myself. I’ll cry tomorrow._ It was easier to get along, she found, if she did not think of her brother at all. _I’m not forgetting him. I’m just… trying to be strong for Mother._

It occurred to her that Mother would not try to keep her out of the woods. She could run down the steps of her tower and out the Hunter’s Gate right now to climb a tree or wade in the brook and no one could stop her. The thought was tempting. If it had been warmer out, she might have done. _Another time._ She would have an excuse when Little Sam arrived. It would be entirely proper to introduce her young nephew to the lands around his new home. If the wildling lady Gilly came with him, maybe she could even teach Talla to hunt! Sam said she knew how. A secret thrill raced up her back, which she did not trouble to shrug off. Perhaps she ought to spend more time in the sept, praying for Father, but she was cried out. And she was the Lady of Horn Hill! At least she was until little Sam arrived, and ladies of great houses did not weep.

Her thoughts roamed freely, and she ceased to see the lovely vision outside her window after a while. It would do Mother a world of good to have a child in the house again. If things had gone according to plan, it would have been Talla’s own son or daughter dandled on her knee—but things had not gone according to plan. Her betrothed had died and Sam, shocking everyone, had produced a bastard son instead. A sweet child, the little she had seen of him, not ill-favored or badly behaved like bastards often were. Mother would dote on him, and maybe not be so sad about Dickon anymore. And as for Sam’s love Gilly, she just knew they would be the best of friends. She was nothing like wildlings were supposed to be, why, she was as quiet and shy as any lady born in the Reach. Still, Talla had privately found her very exotic. The girl could hunt, by the Seven, and fish, and walked miles through the snow and ice to Castle Black just days after giving birth! And Sam even told her, outside Mother’s hearing, that Gilly had worked as a laundress in Mole’s Town, among smallfolk and whores. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, whores were just poor victims of circumstance, but she knew most people, Mother included, still looked down on them. Neither of her parents had supported Queen Margaery’s progressive ideas. And all she had done was minister to the poor and sick! Imagine, thinking that was wrong. They’d both approved of Margaery before, back when she was a potential match for Sam. It gave her a little twinge of satisfaction to know that her brother’s beloved was even more radical than Margaery. Between herself and Lady Gilly—as she had already decided to call her, with no questions asked about her birth—they could shape young Sam into a tolerant, idealistic Lord the Reach could be proud of. Now if little Sam would only hurry up and arrive.

Below, a doe crept out of the woods and cantered silently to the pool to have a drink, but Talla did not see it, her plans and dreams more real to her than the rolling hills below.

The sleepless night took its toll, and the next morning found Talla nodding off over her embroidery. The solar was dim and stiflingly warm, and Mother was drinking that tea she liked, the one that filled the room with a comforting fragrance of herbs and mint. It stirred up memories of being sick in bed as a child, and her mother sitting bedside and reading stories to her all afternoon. The the scent never failed to make her sleepy. She bit back a yawn, then saw that Mother was miles away in her own thoughts, and allowed the yawn to take over her face.

“I saw that,” Mother said, eyes fixed on her own work. She did not sound angry, though. Her grief left little room for other emotions.

“Forgive me, Mother,” she said meekly. “I had trouble sleeping last night.”

“Me too.” With a sigh, the older woman put down her own embroidery, folded her hands, and looked over at her daughter. Her eyes were rimmed with red, as they often were lately. “We shouldn’t waste this beautiful day dozing over our work. And if we embroider any more linens for your trousseau, you’ll have a new sheet for every day of your marriage. Shall we go for a walk?”

“Really?” She felt a sudden burst of enthusiasm that had nothing to do with physical activity. Her mother had not taken much of an interest in anything of late, except napping, and though she still went through the motions of managing the staff and disposing of Father’s estate, she had not suggested anything as invigorating as a walk in months. Maybe she was starting to feel restless for Sam to come, too.

“I’d love a walk,” she replied, smiling, though she didn’t really want to go outside. “Flora says there are still apples in the southern clearing. Maybe we can pick some for a pie.” Apple pie was Mother’s favorite. Maybe that would cheer her.

She was rewarded with a smile. “Apple pie sounds lovely. Yes, let’s go, the sun is bright today. The cold won’t be unbearable if we wrap up tightly.”

They rose as one and began the dreaded task of dressing for the outdoors. Talla discovered her heavy winter cloak no longer fit her, but Mother’s spare one worked well enough when she added an extra layer underneath, and she was anxious to show off her new boots, purchased only a few moons ago in Oldtown. She knew they were only going onto their own lands, and probably wouldn’t see anyone at all, but who knew? Times being the way they were, maybe some gallant knight would be crossing their lands on the way to war.

“You look like a woman of the north,” her mother joked, seeing Talla decked out in her furs and winter finery. “Are you sure you’re my daughter? I can’t abide this cold weather, not at all.” They headed down from the solar, Talla tottering in her new heeled boots. Cold rose from the base of the tower as they descended, promising frightful weather outside. The air smelled of rain. It was well they were going today, the apples would be blighted in an overnight frost, and she was looking forward to that pie now.

As soon as they quit the castle, Talla knew something was amiss. There were far too many people in the yard, for one, all buzzing with whispers like a hive of bees, and several horses covered in lather stood near the gate. A few bore the fox-and-flowers of her mother’s house. A man with a vaguely familiar face seemed to be the center of the knot of activity. Now where had she seen him before? No one had mentioned visitors.

Mother froze stiff at her side, and she was grateful for the thick coat she was wearing—otherwise, she would have felt Mother’s carefully sculpted fingernails digging into the flesh of her arm. “What’s Colin doing here? Dear, did we have word to expect him?”

Colin! That’s who the man was, her Uncle Colin. They’d been semi-estranged since he declared for King Stannis, but they hadn’t seen much of him even before that, if truth be told. Father had nothing but contempt for the man he deemed “timid, with a mouth as fat as his waistline,” and Mother’s affection for her own father’s brother stretched just far enough to defend him. She certainly didn’t care for the man herself.

He noticed them across the yard, raised his hand in a friendly greeting, and offered his horse’s reins to a stableman. The pause gave Mother just enough time to collect herself, and she was all smiles again by the time stout Uncle Colin made his way over to them. “Colin,” she said, “How nice to see you. I would have welcomed you personally if I knew you were on your way. Did you send word?” Both women allowed Uncle Colin to kiss their cheeks, leaving sticky, wet impressions where his lips had been.

“Darling Melessa, a thousand apologies for the inconvenience, but I have news I daren’t trust to a raven.” He frowned around him at the staff of Horn Hill, who were not paying him the slightest attention. “Or anyone outside the family, for that matter. I must insist we speak privily, as soon as time allows. Perhaps now?”

Mother’s blank face gave Talla no notion of how to behave. That in itself was worrying. Aunt Selyse had occasionally wandered over from Dragonstone without notice, and Mother had never been wrong-footed by that, but so much of her hopeful spirit had died with Dickon. _I must take up the slack._ Talla thought once more, longingly, of the apple pie she was now sure they would not get to enjoy.

“We were going for a walk, Uncle, but we can just as easily make time for you. Unless you’d prefer to join us?” She knew before he answered that he would _not_ care for a walk. Those short little legs would only slow them down.

“No, I think not,” he muttered, distracted. “Exhausted from the journey, you know.” All of a sudden his tired eyes lit with a spark of understanding. “Talla?”

“Yes, Uncle, it’s me. I must be a bit…” Her eyes drifted again to his squat legs. “…Taller than the last time you saw me,” she finished.

Whether or not he noticed the slight, he didn’t take offense. “Dear girl,” he laughed, “It’s been an age! And looking more like your mother every day. You must be, what, five-and-twenty now?”

“Eight-and-twenty, actually,” her mother said tersely.

He clutched at his chest with affected surprise. “So old! And still at home? Melessa, if you’re finding it difficult to arrange a betrothal without Randyll around, I’d be happy to make an introduction… Lord Wylde is searching for a bride, all very quietly of course, but I hear things…”

Talla pursed her lips, unable to hide her dismay at the offensive suggestion. Casper Wylde? Why, he was almost as old as Symun Fossoway, her old betrothed!

Mother’s face, accustomed to years of biting back her opinions, was still and serene as she said, “Maybe you hadn’t realized, but Talla is the lady of Horn Hill now. It is time for her to take a husband, but we’re looking for a match who will take the Tarly name and come here to live, instead of the other way round.”

They were?? It was certainly the first she’d heard of it. How long had Mother been mulling it over?

Uncle Colin’s face fell. “Well, ah, that’s what I came to discuss with you. Shall we go in?”

Mist closed in around Horn Hill as they rode away, seeping into the doorways and windows and gates of the castle like water flooding a capsizing ship. Or, how she imagined that would look. She’d never been on the water, personally, but Sam had shared horror stories of his voyages around Westeros with her, and he painted a picture with his words like no one else she knew. “Wretched things, ships,” he’d said, “Swaying like a top with each breath of wind, and pitching to and fro even when it’s calm. I didn’t see much of the lands we passed—my head was over the side, retching, for most of the voyage!” Then he’d smiled his rueful smile, making a joke of himself as he always did. Talla thought a ship would suit her better than her brother, she had always been the more adventurous of the two.

And now she was off on an adventure of her own. She shuddered with anticipation, drawing the attention of her lady mother. “Talla, darling, don’t fear,” she said kindly, her expressive face failing to completely hide her worry. “We’re still in our own land for many leagues yet. Why, you were riding over these very grounds not a week ago.”

“I’m quite all right, Mother, just excited to be off.” And she was. She’d been stuck behind as she watched her two brothers take their leave of Horn Hill, Sam to the Wall and Dickon to war, and part of her longed to go with them. She knew a lady’s place was at home, knew she was better suited to a life like her lady mother’s, and had even begun to anticipate the day she would go to her husband’s side with something like pleasure these last few years. But why shouldn’t she see a bit of the world first? Margaery had been all over Westeros before her marriage to the King, visiting the grandest cities of the land and the most insignificant holdfasts, supping with great lords and common people, flirting and carousing with men and women high and low. She was not so different from Talla, inside. King’s Landing wouldn’t suit her—too crowded—but the voyage she and her mother embarked on now suited her perfectly. A last-minute escape from the cruel sellsword Cersei had bound her to, a daring flight across the continent, to be welcomed at last by her long-lost brother and his new family! It was a tale fit for a book. Even Sam would be impressed. And… she colored to even think it. Perhaps at Winterfell she would catch the eye of a dashing Northman, eager to save a young girl from a bad marriage. Well, not so much a young girl anymore—she was rapidly approaching thirty, if truth be told, but looked younger. Certainly much younger than the women of the North, where the harsh weather would ruin one’s complexion. She spared a glance at her mother, still a beauty at fifty. Maybe her age would not be such a disadvantage. And if she could offer a man Horn Hill, so much the better.

With her head full of these thoughts, she spurred her horse on, eager to see what the wide world had in store for her. It did not occur to her to pause and look back at her home one last time until it was too late. That was what heroines in books always did, and the thought was too picturesque not to try it. But no matter. The heroines never saw their homes again, and she would. She’d be back within the year, with Little Sam on her hip and a handsome, gallant man at her side. That sellsword would have to give up if he found Horn Hill empty. She and Mother would be capable regents for Little Sam, just and righteous but gentler than her father had been. And before that… who knew what she would see?

Her enthusiasm waned after a few hours in the saddle. She had never ridden so far or so fast in one day, and to hear Uncle Colin tell it, there were still leagues to go before they could hope to find a suitable inn for the night. Surprisingly for a man of his size, he was still feeling hale and hearty, and Talla was beginning to understand why Father had always made himself scarce when her uncle was around. The man never stopped _talking_. He had opinions on every subject under the sun, and believed everyone waited with bated breath to hear them. Eventually even Mother stopped engaging him. Hours of discomfort and wind in her face had made her red and tight-lipped. _Poor Mother,_ she thought, _she wasn’t made for this._ No one could equal the grace, courtesy, and good humor of Lady Tarly in her element, but this long ride and the ceaseless chatter of Uncle Colin were beginning to tell on her. _I am Lady Tarly now,_ she reminded herself. _It is her time to rest, and mine to rule._

“Uncle,” Talla began, riding up next to him and interrupting the flow of one of his endless stories. “Have you ever been north?” Her mother shot her a grateful look, her shoulders relaxing as Talla took the brunt of Uncle Colin’s attention.

“A few times, dear, in my younger years. I’ve been to _Lannisport_ ,” he said importantly. “I had the pleasure of seeing snow while I was there on business. Just imagine, a soft, fuzzy white blanket covering the town—it was stunning, took my breath away. Of course, it all melted away by morning, but I consider it one of the more breathtaking sights of my life.”

“Sam has written us from the Wall, and he says it snows nearly every day. You never see the ground for it. I don’t think he finds it breathtaking.” Sam, in fact, hated the snow. _One would think he would have gotten used to it by now,_ she thought, but then Sam complained about nearly everything.

“You would think he’d be used to it by now,” Uncle Colin said, as if he’d read her mind. “Axell—your other uncle, dear, you know, the one Randyll wouldn’t suffer at Horn Hill?—settled in to the North rather better than Sam, I think. It wasn’t but a few moons before Stannis arranged for him to marry that wildling princess. A pity that he didn’t live to wed the girl and bring her back to Brightwater Keep.” He laid a pudgy hand to his forehead as he spoke of his lost brother, as if the mere thought pained him. _That’s rich._ It was well known that the elder Florent siblings did not rub along without a deal of friction.

It was funny, to think of old Uncle Axell betrothed. He had to be near seventy. She pictured him waiting for his bride, who looked like Gilly but was dressed all in furs, at the head of the sept, pulling at the hair on his ears. “I wonder why he had the sudden urge to wed, at his age. He’d never done before, had he?”

“Ah, well, it’s not good for a man to grow old alone,” Uncle Colin declared. “He wants a warm welcome when he comes home of an evening, and a prosperous household, and the sound of little feet around the hearth. Axell held off longer than most men, but even he saw sense in the end. And what a kind thing to do for that poor wretched girl, to raise her from nothing to be a great Lady! A pity…” He shook his head.

Mother had grown stiff again, and this time Talla sensed it was more than mere saddle soreness. She, too, was beginning to grasp the point of this diversion of Uncle Colin’s. Even now, he still hoped they would turn around and ride for Rain House, the seat of his friend Casper Wylde. All this talk of “warm welcomes” and “little feet”—clear admonishments of Talla’s single state. Did he think she was so dim? Randyll Tarly had not raised any of his children to be stupid, boy or girl. “A kindness, or a disservice, Uncle Colin?” she asked sweetly. “Maybe a wildling woman would prefer a wildling man, did you ever think of that?” Mother would not approve of her pertness, but _someone_ should say it. She chanced a look back at her mother and found her troubled. Troubled was better than sad, anyway.

The promised rain arrived when the hills disappeared. All three travelers were soaked to the skin when they stopped for the evening. They were not even halfway to Oldtown, but Mother was flagging, and Uncle Colin had begun to make noises about ale. The inn where they chose to overnight, the Yellow Rose, had an ample supply of that, but Talla had her doubts about the establishment’s cleanliness—she was certain she saw fleas leaping off the innkeeper as coin was exchanged. Talla vowed to herself that she would bathe and wash her hair before setting off in the morning, no matter the extra coin or time it would cost.

The flea-bitten innkeeper, who proved most gracious despite his infestation, insisted on treating them to a round of drinks before the communal meal was served. From somewhere (she did not want to think too hard about where,) he unearthed four goblets of a rather good vintage of Arbor Gold. She sipped at it, not wanting to lose her wits. They were still within the Reach, no more than a day’s ride from home, but the reckless spirit of the afternoon had worn off and the reality of what they planned to do weighed more heavily on her as night descended. They were defying the Queen! It made her shiver. Father had not wavered in his support of the Lannisters, even when Queen Cersei had seized power through less than legal means, but she had never troubled to ask what her lady mother thought. She assumed Mother shared his feelings; but she had taken to this plan of Uncle Colin’s with startling gusto. The prospect of going north awoke the urgency and purpose missing in her mother since Father and Dickon ran afoul of the dragon queen. Talla took a sip of her wine, squinting sideways at her mother as she exchanged bland pleasantries with the innkeeper. Had such determination always lurked there, beneath the surface? Now that she thought about it, Mother _had_ dared to argue with Father on a few well-chosen occasions… and it was more than passing strange that she had not arranged another match for her daughter after Symun Fossoway’s death. Did she mean what she said about finding a man who would take the Tarly name and let Talla rule in her own right? If only she could talk to Mother out of her uncle’s hearing.

Unfortunately, he showed every sign of holding them hostage in the common room for the rest of the evening. Just now he was expounding at length about his exploits at the Battle of Ashford to the grinning innkeeper. He was not even halfway through, she knew—she and Mother had heard the story, almost verbatim, not three hours ago. Still, Mother was listening keenly, as if the tale was a new one. Once again she admired, not without a twinge of jealousy, her mother’s ability to feign interest in the most mundane things. She had taught Talla early on that compassion and courtesy could prevail where swords could not, but the lesson was not an easy one to absorb. She tried, but it was so _hard_ to listen to Uncle Colin.

“…and none of us had to pay for anything that night. _Anything!_ ” Her uncle gave the innkeeper a roguish wink, and both burst into gales of laughter, the innkeep a half-second too late to be convincing. Mother smiled too, through thin lips. Talla recalled that her uncle had made a ribald remark at this juncture of the story, and it hadn’t gone over well with either of them in the first telling.

“I wonder,” her mother said carefully, “whether the rest of this story is appropriate for my daughter’s ears.”

“Oh, she’s nearly thirty, it’s time she learned a thing or two about the world!” Uncle Colin, well into his third goblet of Arbor Gold now, slapped his knee in emphasis. “It’s past time she had a husband, Melessa.”

“That’s why we are going to Oldtown, Uncle, if you still remember after three cups of wine. Her betrothed, Ser Bronn, will be joining us in less than a moon! There’s so much to do and buy and organize before he arrives.” Mother pinched her underneath the table as she used to do when Talla chattered too much in company. _Keep quiet,_ that pinch said. During the first leg of their journey, all three of them had agreed to act as though they were cooperating with the Queen’s edict until they actually boarded the ship to Barrowton. Once aboard, Uncle Colin would keep his name, and the ladies would pose as his daughter and granddaughter. Mother had the Florent looks; no one would question that she was Colin’s daughter. They would just have to trust to hope that no one would tell tales of wayward Florents in Lannisport. Once they reached the North they would be safe. _From Cersei, anyway._ None of them had dared to discuss what sort of welcome they could expect from Queen Daenerys. Colin, no doubt, expected she would welcome his support as Stannis once did; but Mother would never reconcile with the woman who burned her son alive, no matter how much time passed, or how dire the alternative. For Talla’s part, she hoped to avoid a meeting at all costs. Sam was at Winterfell with her, and still he lived and breathed; that would have to be reassurance enough. With luck, Queen Daenerys would grant them safe passage to Barrowton.

The innkeep saved them both from Uncle Colin’s reply. “You are to be wed, milady? My congratulations! What an exciting time. May the Mother above bless you with many children.”

“Thank you,” she said dutifully, though at his level of intoxication, he might as well be wishing her a happy name day. She lowered her eyes in what she hoped was a wistful fashion.

“Talking of children. Do you have any yourself?” Mother’s encouraging gaze rested on the innkeep, who swelled with pride under her attention.

“Two daughters, milady. Sylvie helps me with the food and drink and serving, and Tilly runs the ah, establishment next door.” His eyes slid over to Uncle Colin, who looked quite put out at his story being interrupted.

Mother smiled. “A tavern? All by herself?”

The smile on the innkeep’s face grew fixed. “Something like that. A tavern for, ah, gentlemen.” Seeing the look on her face, he hastened to explain. “I know it’s not to milady’s taste, but it’s not so bad, really. Very clean. All her girls are well paid, and we don’t put up with the bad sorts. Any man steps a toe out of line, Tilly calls me to chuck them out!” He cackled, scratching the nape of his neck as he did so. “If she don’t chase them out herself!”

There was a pause as her mother searched for something kind to say. “She sounds like quite a woman,” she settled for, and the innkeep beamed.

Uncle Colin, rejoining the conversation at last, leaned forward in his seat. He reached for his goblet, succeeded at securing it within his grasp on the second try, and raised it in a toast. “To daughters!”

“To daughters!”

They did not stay long in the common room after that. Dinner was a heavy stew of beef, carrots, and neeps, with freshly baked bread on the side, and though Uncle Colin tucked in with relish, she and her mother begged off after only a few bites. Talla had resolved to slim down a bit before arriving at Winterfell, so all the better to avoid the temptation of the rich-looking stew. Oddly, her uncle had not insisted on their joining him, seeming to prefer the company of the jovial innkeep. “Don’t wait up,” he had said as he waved them off, “me and my new friend Lue have much to discuss!” _Their “discussion” will be no more than a handful of words exchanged over ale,_ she thought, but she was glad enough to forsake his company. They quickly and quietly said their good-byes and made their way up the steep, narrow stair to their shared room, and at last Talla and her mother could breathe freely for the first time since they had quitted her solar that morning.

She peeled back the coverlet on the bed—no fleas. It seemed safe enough to stretch out. She laid back, arms behind her head, and kicked off her new boots. They pinched something awful. Blisters had risen on her heels and sides of her feet. _But that is a child’s complaint, and I’m not a child._ There would be worse hardships on the road, and later the ship, before they reached safety. It seemed petty to moan about something as mundane as a few blisters. 

Mother joined her after double- and triple-checking the lock, sitting primly on the edge of the coverlet. “What a long day it has been, Talla dear. When I woke this morning, I never would have imagined we’d be fleeing the Queen’s justice by nightfall. It seems like something from a song, does it not?” She pressed a hand to her temple, and this simple, tired gesture filled Talla with more sympathy than all of Uncle Colin’s emoting over his brother’s death.

“I was thinking it was more like something from a book. One you would read to us when we were sick in bed.” That earned a faint smile from Mother, emboldening her. “The heroine never gets to bring her mother with her, though, so I am luckier than most.”

She thought this would please Mother, but it did the opposite—she grimaced. “No one tells stories of old ladies, unless they are mad and wicked.”

“You’re not old!”

“Ah, but you do think me mad and wicked?” Talla opened her mouth to argue, but Mother caught her first, gently explaining, “That was a joke, dear.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat, wondering whether she should bring up what had been on her mind all evening. “Mother. Why did you never seek another betrothal for me after Symun died?”

Mother’s face registered faint surprise. “Why, I hoped you would find someone for yourself. You are an heiress now, you could have your pick of almost anyone. I wish I’d had such freedom to make my own match. Perhaps then, your father…” She shrugged.

Heat flooded Talla’s cheeks. How could she imply such a thing, with Father not yet cold in his grave?! The loss was so recent that the chair in his solar still smelled like him, and here was Mother talking about not wanting him. Her anger must have shown, because Mother patted her hand and said, “Please don’t misunderstand me, dear. I did learn to love your father, and him me, although we might not have shown it at times. I only mean to say that it might be easier for you to love someone of your own choosing.”

There was sense in that, she had to admit. Her anger curdled. “Who would you have chosen, if not him?”

“Well.” Mother blushed and twenty years lifted from her face. There was a brief glimpse of what she must have looked like as a playful young maiden. “This was many years ago, mind, but I was _mad_ for Lord Manderly.”

“Lord Too-Fat?” she squealed, breaking out into giggles. Even in the South Lord Manderly’s girth was widely ridiculed.

“He wasn’t fat back then!” Mother protested, and then joined in the laughter. “He was _stately_.” The relief at seeing her mother laugh again was almost a physical sensation. _She will be all right, someday,_ she thought, and the constant tug at her heart lessened.

“How did you meet?” she asked, curious, when they’d laughed themselves out. Mother did not often speak about her childhood.

“Your grandfather sent me to White Harbor for six moons when I was four-and-ten,” she confided. “To see if Wyman and I got on. We did, and were on the point of a betrothal… but then winter set in unexpectedly, and a northern match did not seem so desirable anymore, and Father thought he might try to get me Stannis instead.” She shrugged. “He did not succeed, as you know…”

“That’s just as well! Look what happened to Selyse and Shireen!”

“Indeed.” Mother shuddered.

“So… do you desire a Northern match for me, since your own did not work out?” In her mind she sorted through the sparse knowledge she had of Northern houses. She was fairly certain Lord Manderly did not have any young sons…

“I had not thought of it before this morning. Now, Colin has made me wonder.”

“What did he say to you? In your solar, while I packed our things?” she asked, her curiosity about Mother’s sudden daring finally winning out. Mother had closeted herself with Colin for an hour or so while Talla collected their winter things and made arrangements for transport to Oldtown. She had assumed they were only making a plan for the journey, but now she was not so sure.

“He told me more about this sellsword you are pledged to marry. Talla, I honestly would not have minded if you brought home a hedge knight, if he were honest and true and treated you well. But Ser Bronn… the details were very disturbing. He has lived as many years as me, and has known treachery for most of them. He is a known companion of Jaime Lannister and the Imp—”

“So was Father,” she pointed out.

“Only on the battlefield. Ser Bronn would go _wenching_ with them.” She shuddered. “And I hear he prefers… _Dornish women._ ”

Talla had to roll her eyes at that. The fact that he killed men for coin could be overlooked, but finding dark women attractive? Why, that was the last straw! Truth be told, occasional wenching bothered her a great deal less than this Bronn’s violent career. She wished Mother felt the same. “Don’t be so old-fashioned. Dornish women are renowned for their beauty! Such lovely skin… and I wish _my_ hair was as thick and shiny as theirs,” she said wistfully, tugging on her own thin braid.

“I’m not concerned about their hair or complexions,” Mother snapped, clearly not finding the subject as amusing as she did. “The Dornish have meddled in the affairs of the Marcher lords for generations. I know you haven’t seen much evidence of it in your lifetime, but when I was a girl, war with Dorne was a constant fear. I won’t have you take a husband with Dornish sympathies! Oh, it does not seem so bad to you now, when he is only a puppet of the Lannisters, but what will you think if he takes a Dornish paramour? What if he moves her into Horn Hill?” Her fierceness on this subject quieted Talla’s giggles. For the first time she wondered if Mother had waged battles of her own, not on an open field, but in her bedroom. “Ser Bronn is a _known associate of Ellaria Sand._ Do you know what she and her daughters get up to?”

Talla sat up, wrestling with too many thoughts to continue reclining, and Mother immediately grabbed her hand. “Dear, I want you to be happy—please listen to this old woman. Find a good-natured, honest man your own age, and settle down as soon as you can. Otherwise, I fear Ser Bronn may catch up with you, even if we try to hide.” She seemed close to crying again. Did she truly fear the Dornish so, after all this time?

“I will!” she assured Mother, patting her hand. “That’s why I asked if you had someone in mind for me. It would please me to know that you approve of any match I would make.”

Mother cooled, some of the urgency going out of her. “Very well. There _is_ Casper Wylde, of course, but I saw how little you cared for that idea. Uncle Colin has also proposed himself as a match—”

“What??” The thought was foul! She had not even wanted him to kiss her cheek!

“We won’t let that happen, of course. Why do you think I mentioned the brothel next door? We need him out of the way to decide on a potential match before he brings it up again!”

Talla felt her mouth fall open, and snapped it shut immediately. She had felt an intense embarrassment when her mother questioned the innkeep about his daughter’s business, ashamed to be related to someone so sheltered. But Mother had known all along! She would never have guessed it of her. But then, she knew Mother’s placid face could hide all variety of emotions. Only once or twice had she seen the façade crack, when someone dared to criticize her or Dickon or Sam. But her mother would never keep secrets from her. The disguise would be for Uncle Colin’s benefit, surely.

“Very sneaky, Mother. You had me fooled, anyway.” She thought she saw Mother’s lips twitch, but perhaps it was only a trick of the firelight. “Is there a Northern lord available who clears the very low bar of not being a close relative?”

Mother’s lips twitched again, and this time she allowed the twitch to grow into a smile. “It’s an unconventional match, I admit… but I think you should try for Brandon Stark. He’s young yet, and second in line to be King in the North. Of course, he may not be able to produce children—we’ll need to speak to the Maester at Winterfell before anything is finalized. But _if_ he is capable, and smart, he will cherish a wife who will not begrudge him the use of his legs. You are old enough to look beyond physical appearances to the person inside.”

Talla nodded fervently. Her brother Sam did not make ladies swoon, but he was the best man she knew. “Of course I will,” she said, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “This sellsword sounds awful, but I won’t shirk my duty to my house. I’m ready to get married, Mother, truly.”

That pleased her. “And give me grandchildren, I hope,” Mother teased. “But don’t have yours arrive early like Little Sam did!”

As the night trickled by, and the sound of her mother’s soft snoring filled the room, Talla’s mind spun, wondering what her suitor would be like. No— _she_ would be the suitor in this situation, for Brandon would have to take her name. How unusual! She imagined Brandon would be a younger version of bold Robb Stark, cool and calculated on the battlefield, but passionate in his personal life. She would not mind so much if he were confined to a chair, not really, as long as he still let her ride and run through the woods. There were some gentler paths west of Horn Hill where she might even be able to wheel him, if he wanted. _And,_ said a shameful small voice inside, _you might not have to bear his children._ It was disgraceful even to think of it, Mother would be furious, but childbirth frightened her. She knew too many other women, highborn ladies even, who had died from it, or sickened and never recovered. She feared she was not selfless enough to give up her youth and freedom for another to live, even her own child. If Brandon’s injury was so severe, she might never have to wrestle with that thorny question, might not have to bed him at all. Truth be told, the prospect would be a relief. Little Sam would be there to carry on the Tarly name if she and her husband were barren. Yes, Brandon sounded like just the man for her. _Brandon Tarly._ She buried her face in her pillow, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melessa Florent Tarly is a badass, no I am not taking questions 😌 Isn't it weird how you get attached to characters who have, like, three lines of dialogue? There is basically no character development for her in canon, but... in my mind there is!  
> Last week I got a comment about how many chapters this would be. I don't have it all written yet, but I'm thinking at least 50, possibly closer to 100. Just FYI. I have a pretty firm idea of where each character is going, but there's some nebulous stuff in the middle.  
> It's not germane to the story, but in case you haven't read the books; Axell Florent (Melessa's uncle, Colin's brother) was an early supporter of Stannis who followed him north to the Wall. While there, he became betrothed to a "wildling princess." He is also a complete ass.  
> Next week we'll return to Winterfell, where they've just received news of Cersei's questionable appointments in the Reach and the Stormlands. And is that Viserion I see in the distance? 🐉


	15. Jorah II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam frets, Jorah dreams, and Edmure makes a move of his own.

“Nock!” The archers adjusted their bows.

“Draw!” They drew their arms back, tense.

“LOOSE!” The bowstrings sang and arrows _whang_ ed into the target. More whizzed past the bullseye erected in the yard and drove themselves into the mud, or pinged off the stone walls, or in one case, lodged in a sack of grain. _That one will be Tarly’s._ How could the same fingers that treated his greyscale with such precise, assured movements turn to jelly at the merest contact with an instrument of war? If the man had been as jittery at the Citadel as he now appeared, Jorah might have taken his chances with the illness.

He was pleased to see, though, that others were progressing in their training more rapidly. One of the squires that came north with Lord Tully showed a natural talent that was being put to more frequent use at Winterfell than it ever had been at home in the Riverlands. _He might be able to compete one day. Assuming he lives._ And among the ladies, quiet Alys Karstark, just arrived from Karhold, had made eight shots out of ten and was not far off with the others. Jorah had a shrewd idea she had been practicing all alone at home while her menfolk were away. He wondered if she and Lyanna had met yet.

“Better,” said Ser Artos Norrey, the new master-at-arms, with approval. “Most of you. Tarly, you need to build up more strength in those arms. If you can’t even hold your arrow steady, it’ll go astray every time. Fetch that sack of grain and run it around the yard five times.”

“But Ser,” the fat man whined, “I want a word with Jorah.” Red-faced and panting, Sam was still better off than he had been after his first session with Ser Artos; he’d been bent over wheezing, hands on his knees, at the end of that one.

“So do your laps with the grain, and talk to him after,” said the master-at-arms comfortably. “He’ll still be here.”

“But—” His eyes went wide, panicked at the thought of performing more labor in front of all and sundry. Jorah wanted to take pity on him. The man wasn’t cut out for a life of physicality, it just wasn’t so, and pretending things were otherwise would help no one. Still. His betrothed would be more useful to them on a battlefield. Gilly at least could hunt.

“Go on,” Jorah prompted. “I’ll have a chat with the Master while I wait. We’ll see the rest of you back here on the morrow, same hour.” Defeated, Sam slumped over to the sack of grain as the others dispersed. He tore the wayward arrow out and snapped it over his knee, scowling. A few granules of grain tumbled into the mud.

“I despair of that one,” said Artos, shaking his head. “I only slept easy away from home because I knew my maiden daughters were protected by the men of the Watch, up away at the Wall. But if that’s the kind of man I was relying on…”

“He gave my father good counsel.” Jorah grimaced. Most of the men of the mountain clans, Artos included, had but little contact with other Northern families, and remained ignorant of the reason Jorah had been banished from Westeros. Accordingly, the mountain clansmen treated him better than most of the other lords did. He wished it to remain that way. Talk of Jeor brought them too close to that painful subject. “He has some talent for healing. It might be worth having him train with Wolkan, rather than you.”

“Aye, I thought much the same. But the Jon insists he be trained to defend himself. Says he won’t lose another friend if he can help it.” Artos spit into the sludge of the yard. “He’ll lose more than one before this is over, I told him.”

“I’m sure he knows that.” At the other end of the yard, Sam had stopped to chat with another man of the Watch and laid down his burden. Jorah would be waiting a while. “What do you make of these others?”

Ser Artos’ conclusions were more positive than Jorah’s own. With so many bodies beginning training at arms at the same time—all boys over twelve and girls over sixteen had been been drafted—Artos had split the duties between himself, Jorah, and Ser Kyle Condon. Others helped here and there, notably Squire Payne and Cotter Pyke of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, but Artos had insisted the training be run by knights. “They’ll work harder if there’s a chance of a knighthood at the end—the boys, anyway,” he had said, furrowing his brow. Now, some weeks after training began in earnest, several boys in Artos’ group had been marked for future knighthood and some even taken on as squires by the lords in attendance. Jorah, who had been relegated to the group consisting of middle-aged farmers and crofters and all their wives who were not currently pregnant, had been less of a success. Still, he thought some of his men steady enough to take down a handful of wights with them, and he did not doubt the women. They would fight more fiercely than the men if their children’s lives were at stake.

Too soon, the simple joy of small talk with a man who did not know his crime wore off. When Sam had huffed and puffed four more times around the yard—never complaining, to his credit—Ser Artos gave him a respectful nod and departed for the warmth of the Great Hall, clapping and blowing into his cupped hands for warmth.

“Hobb says hello,” Sam told him cheerfully when he’d got his breath back. “You won’t know him, but he served with your father a long time, and thought he owed you a greeting. The Old Bear always hated Hobb’s cooking, he did.”

Jorah wondered why Sam was telling him this. Every man of the Watch seemed to feel the need to share memories of Jeor with him, whether they had met before or no. Before he could ask, though, Sam took his elbow and began steering him across the yard to the Library Tower. That was more initiative than he had shown all morning, so he allowed it to happen. Ser Condon’s group of archers was starting to turn up, and he did not want to be in the background when their shots went astray.

The library, with its permanent fug of smokiness and sad-looking rows of tattered books and scrolls, was not Jorah’s preferred place to while away a morning; but Sam kept the fire well-tended and crackling hot, and he never begrudged time spent with the man who had saved his life. He had grown quite fond of Sam, and wished he weren’t at such odds with the _khaleesi_. From the tidbits he’d heard of Sam’s childhood, he gathered his relationship with Randyll was much the same as his own with Jeor, and possibly even worse since Sam was so uniquely unable to defend himself. He wondered how he would feel if he’d faced down the man who killed his own father.

That was not something he cared to dwell upon, either. They both took a seat, Sam looking relieved to be back in his own element. “I wanted to speak privily, out of the yard, you know,” he began, with uncharacteristic directness. “There’s something troubling me and I had to tell _someone_ , but I don’t know to whom to turn…”

“Is it your Gilly?” he asked, thinking of Lynesse. “I don’t know if I can offer much advice there. My own marriage for love was not a success.”

“Oh, no, things with Gilly are wonderful.” Despite his harried aspect, Sam took the time for a smile, thinking of his betrothed. “Usually I would talk to her, in fact, but she doesn’t… well, she _knows_ about this, but she doesn’t really understand why it is important. And Edd has been so ill, he doesn’t need more problems heaped on his back. I know we aren’t close, but I thought I could trust you with this...”

If left uninterrupted, Sam would ramble on all day, and he didn’t have time for that. It warmed his heart to be trusted, though. “Of course, Samwell, I think you will find that I do not go telling tales.”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t think so.” Sam allowed himself a moment of thumb-twiddling before rushing headlong into his woes. “Prince Rhaegar had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled and married Lyanna Stark in Dorne,” he blurted out. “Jon is their son. He has a claim to the Iron Throne.”

A gust of wind whistled in through the drafty door, sprinkling Jorah with snow. He did not register the chilly air at his back or the melting snowflakes in his hair. It couldn’t be so. _I knew_ _Lyanna, she would never… but then, she wasn’t happy with Robert… and with Elia so frail…_ It made a sick sort of sense, now he thought about it. He had never been fully convinced that Ned had strayed with some Dornish wet nurse when he had fair and fertile Catelyn at home. _But why not raise Jon as his nephew,_ he wondered, and immediately had the answer; _Robert._ Robert had tried to murder Daenerys, a penniless girl, even as she ran across half the world to get away from him. What would he have done to Jon, if he knew?? And, gods, what would his _khaleesi_ think??

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam hastened to explain, watching the storm of emotions cross Jorah’s face. “Your queen doesn’t have to worry, she still has the superior claim as Aerys’ daughter. Since he outlived Rhaegar, his other children inherit before any of Rhaegar’s would. Although…” _Jon is a man_ , he finished in his own head, knowing Sam was thinking the same.

“Who else knows about this?” he croaked, his throat going dry. Gods, he had expected Sam to pester him with questions about his recovery from greyscale or something, not _this!_

“Gilly, of course. She’s the one that found it out, actually… but she has no notion of who Rhaegar is, or what it would mean for Jon. Or the queen,” he added hastily. “And Brandon confirmed it. The septon who performed the marriage is dead, so unless Ned told someone… and it doesn’t seem so, does it?”

“It doesn’t,” he echoed, deep in thought. “You said Gilly found this out? How?”

“She used to read my books from the Citadel, for practice. I, ah… checked some out and brought them home.” For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain, Sam’s forehead began to sweat. “Septon Maynard, who performed the marriage ceremony, made a note of it in his diary—”

“Is this one of the books you checked out?” His mind whizzed. How many maesters had seen this, and done nothing? Could it be possible no one had looked at it except Gilly and Sam?

“No, I’ve checked, I must have left it at the Citadel. But Bran confirmed it! That’s good enough for me. I’m sure he’ll tell you, too, if you ask.”

_No doubt he will._ If Jon was Lyanna’s son, not Ned’s, that meant Brandon should be King in the North by rights. Or Sansa, if Brandon was deemed unfit. Why hadn’t he said anything before, mentioned it to Jon at the very least? Could he be one of those vanishingly rare men who did not seek power? _Or does he know it isn’t necessary?_

“Ah, Jorah, ser?” Sam’s careful nudge shook him out of his thoughts. “What should I do? Jon should know… I meant to tell him, only by the time he got here he and Daenerys were already wed. It will bother him, to know he’s married his own aunt. But he has to know. But it will hurt him so…”

Sam’s hand-wringing was beginning to grate on Jorah’s nerves. As grateful as he was for the information, he could not help but wonder why he’d said anything at all. It was better for everyone that he keep it to himself. Jon did _not_ need to know. Jon _would_ be appalled at marrying a close relative. Daenerys might cope with that revelation rather better, Targaryen marriage customs being what they were, but Jon’s claim would be another story. _Will she want to know she is not the last Targaryen?_ he wondered. Her moods were less and less predictable now. It might be the strain of a new marriage, or just her chilly welcome in th North.

With that thought, it was clearer what action he should take. “Don’t say anything of this to Jon for the nonce. He must be told, of course, but the situation is… more complicated than you know, Samwell. Do you trust me?”

Sam’s head bobbed, his chin wobbling. “Of course I do, else I wouldn’t have told you.”

With a nasty sinking feeling, Jorah continued. “Once I came to you with my own great burden, and you relieved me of it, even though you didn’t know me from Aegon. Let me now take your burden off your shoulders. I shall need to think on this for a time, but be assured, we will find some way to make this palatable to Jon.”

Sam let out a long, wavering sigh of relief, and visibly relaxed. “Thank you, Jorah, I knew you would help. You have no idea how much better I feel getting that off my chest!”

He could imagine. For all the shame he felt when his spying became known to his _khaleesi_ , it had been some small relief to not have to torture himself over it any longer. How had he become the keeper of another secret about her? _I will tell her this time,_ he resolved. Just as soon as he had proof. _I have to get my hands on that book._

Maester Wolkan drummed his fingers against the desktop, considering. At length he said, “ _The Life and Times of High Septon Maynard._ I am not familiar with the title, I confess it, though of course I remember Septon Maynard himself. May I ask why the Queen requires this volume shipped from the Citadel with such urgency?”

Jorah’s face belied nothing, but underneath his calm exterior he was bristling with frustration. _Damned maesters._ Aunt Maege never had much use for them, and neither did he. He’d rather hoped Wolkan would not ask questions. He was only after a book, and not a terribly valuable one at that, just an old septon’s diary. Surely the man had done worse things in service to the Boltons.

“Not the Queen, Maester, I want it for myself. It’s a simple matter of planning ahead. In the North we keep the Old Gods, but six of the kingdoms do not, and Daenerys requires their support as well.” _It is not a lie,_ Jorah told himself. Daenerys would need to convert to the Faith of the Seven eventually, and publicly. She would realize that when she had fewer responsibilities to juggle.

“Oh, in that case…” Wolkan rummaged in his desk. “Septon Chayle was never replaced after his death, Lady Catelyn not being with us, but I could request another to be posted at Winterfell… perhaps from the Starry Sept in Oldtown… now _where_ is that blasted quill…”

_Damn!_ The last thing they needed was some septon poking his holy nose into their business, trying to convert everyone to the Faith of the Seven and stirring up trouble with the smallfolk. That wouldn’t do at all. “That won’t be necessary at this juncture. The Queen has enough on her mind without taking religious instruction. At present, she seeks only to replace the deceased High Septon, who you’ll recall—”

“Ran afoul of Cersei,” Wolkan offered, producing his quill at last. Jorah was disturbed to see him still intent on the request for a new septon. “’An unfortunate accident,’ she’s been calling the explosion at the Sept. ‘Unfortunate accident’ my hairy—”

“Yes, well,” Jorah interrupted, “I thought—the smallfolk will be wanting another High Septon appointed, won’t they? When we were last at Dragonstone, it was the topic on everyone’s lips. Until a new High Septon is appointed, decisions on matters of faith cannot be rendered; religious inquiries cannot be held, or new septons indoctrinated into the Faith, or marriages annulled…” As soon as the words left his lips he wished to call them back.

“An annulment? Has the Queen soured on her marriage already?” Wolkan was busy in his desk again, searching for spare parchment. _He can multitask,_ Jorah noted with unease. The man had a keener mind than his own old Maester, then, who often had trouble maintaining focus on even one thought at a time. Now what had the man’s name been?

“I don’t suggest anything of the kind—”

“A joke, Ser.”

“Ah.”

“But talking of annulments…” Wolkan lowered his voice and leaned in. “I cannot help but remember that Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa are still wed. And from what Sansa has shared with me, the marriage remains unconsummated. Theoretically, if the Queen were to appoint a new High Septon…”

“Her consort’s eldest sister could be freed from her vows, yes,” Jorah said, thankful for the sudden turn in the conversation. He had come prepared with several different excuses. Not this one, but it would serve. _What a web of shit I am spinning._

“Perhaps a certain Dornish lord?” Wolkan’s voice remained light.

“Perhaps,” Jorah agreed, having no inkling of what he was talking about. Was there another Martell son who had slipped his mind? “But no matter. Daenerys’ realm requires a new High Septon, in any case, and she means to appoint one. Maynard was the last one we had who was not assassinated. I would consult his own writings to form a better picture of what makes a successful and productive High Septon. Rebuilding the Seven Kingdoms will be a monumental task for our Queen even with the Faith on her side. Best she should begin to court them now.”

It was a good afternoon’s work, he thought as he descended the tower where Maester Wolkan kept his rooms. So why did he feel so grimy? He’d removed heads before and felt less guilt. Something about tricking such a bare-faced decent man troubled him. Maybe it was Wolkan’s baldness.

He felt an urgent need to be alone with his thoughts, dissect what implications this news had for his Queen; but the prospect of returning to his own chambers cheered him little. A dismal place. He would be assaulted by memories of Lynesse and Daenerys both when what he needed most was a clear head. And with the castle so crowded, where else could he find peace? Sam was in the library, and the Sept, usually a good place to think without being bothered, had been destroyed, which left—

Sighing, Jorah turned and headed into the godswood for the first time in twenty-odd years.

He found it empty. Sansa sometimes visited the godswood of an afternoon, and lately Lord Umber had taken to playing there as well, but today it was mercifully free of traffic. Perhaps one of them had just left. The snow in front of the heart tree was tamped down, as if someone had been kneeling there; but Jorah had no intention of praying.

The roots of the weirwood tree were not soft, and the wood, rubbed bare of bark, was cold. All the better to keep him focused, he supposed, though his bones would be angry at him later. So, Jon was half Targaryen. Daenerys’ nephew. Rhaegar’s son. The mad king’s grandson. Which of those three did he most closely resemble? Was there any of the Targaryen madness in him? Jon seemed steady enough… and yet, Aerys had not been a raving madman in his youth, either. Eccentric, perhaps. And for that matter, what if Jon and Daenerys had a child together? Would the babe suffer the same fate as Rhaego, born dead with monstrous deformities? Or had that been all Mirri’s doing? No matter what, his _khaleesi_ couldn’t go through that again… but maybe Drogon and Rhaegal _would_ be her only children, like she thought…

Something about the dragons nagged at him, but his mind refused to settle long enough to pick at it. It was too much for one man to sort through. He could see why Sam had been bursting to share the secret. Well, share it with a thinking feeling human being, not Brandon. A thought of discussing it amongst the three of them flitted through his mind, but he rejected it as soon as it came. Brandon would only smile eerily and say something cryptic. No, it was better for him and Sam to work it out between the two of them.

He groaned and rubbed at his eyes. Maybe something would occur to him in the night.

The day grew warm around him as he sat, as warm as Winterfell could be in the dead season. Steam rose off the gentle pool in the center of the godswood in soft curls, twisting upwards into the still air to dissipate against the bright white sky. The mist put him in mind of wraiths, ghosts. As a boy at Bear Island, his nurse had woven tales of the ghosts of Harrenhal and the phantoms of the Haunted Forest for himself and Maege. Stories of spooks for little children, which even then had the taste of falsehood about them. The pale, misty forms in the stories, those of midnight walks and sudden noises, those were not ghosts. Ghosts took the form of the disapproving father, the wife whose face he no longer could bring to mind. The queen he had once hoped to charm. They weren’t frightening, not truly. Ghosts were borne of pain. And they were with you all the time, even if their human-forms still walked the land. Jorah would take the otherworldly vapors of the pool any day.

They were actually sort of pretty, he thought, watching the streams of smoky vapor rise into the air. They almost looked like Daenerys’ curls, pale and wispy…

_He was back beyond the wall, trudging through the snow with Thoros of Myr by his side. The bitter cold wind sliced through his thick furs with the ease of a hot knife through butter. “Might be time to bring out your flaming sword,” he joked to Thoros, but when the man looked at him, confusion on his face, he was young again, young as he’d been at the Siege of Pyke._ That’s not right, _Jorah thought,_ Thoros was balding when we went beyond the Wall. _He looked down at his own hands. Smooth, strong, free of blemishes. Greyscale had not touched them._

_Thoros threw an arm across Jorah’s chest. “Do you hear that?” They halted, stiff with caution, peering through the blowing snow. A faint roar. A shuffling noise as something large, something horribly familiar rushed toward them. “Is that—”_

_Then the bear was on them, its monstrous jaws open wide as the mouth of a cave. Spittle flew from its rotten gums. The scent of something bloody, sharp, and terribly **frozen** filled Jorah’s nostrils as the bear roared its rage. Thoros brought out his sword then, yelling something tiny and inconsequential in the face of the beast. _My blade, _he thought numbly, but when he reached for Longclaw the scabbard was empty._

_The bear had Thoros in its grip then, its steely blue eyes glittering in the light from the forgotten sword. Thoros’ wails of pain and fear were hideous to Jorah’s ears. Only once in his life had he heard something to freeze his heart like that, in the tent on the Dothraki Sea where Mirri Maz Duur sang for Khal Drogo’s life. He had to stop it. Jorah took up the flaming blade and plunged it into the bear’s eye, dimming it forever; but the bear kept coming. Its massive paw swiped Jorah’s chest, leaving four deep slashes. Blood poured from the wounds. When his steaming blood met the snow, it crystallized and turned to rubies._ That happened to Rhaegar, too, _he mused as his knees buckled._

_Then Longclaw arrived at last, jutting up through the bear’s jaw; and it was Jon wielding it. Or Ned? Jorah’s vision was growing hazy, soft at the edges. Did Ned have black hair? He couldn’t remember. It had been so long. He and the bear tumbled down onto the frozen earth, both of them, to lie forever in the lawless lands beyond the Wall, snow to cover their bodies._

_But was it really a bear? When he rolled over, the beast was much smaller, and covered with as much leather as fur. A man? Using the last of his strength, Jorah grabbed at its chest to pull its face forward. A man; his father. Jeor’s lifeless face stared back at him, covered in hoarfroast as white as his beard._

_Longclaw clattered to the frozen ground beside him. The man he’d taken for Jon, or perhaps Ned, had become Sam Tarly. He knelt next to them in the snow, cradling Jeor’s frosted head in his lap._ That’s for me to do, _he protested inside his own head, but his weakness would not let him rise. “Wake up, Old Bear,” Sam moaned tearfully, “We have to go home. We can’t be here. The dragons can’t be here.”_

_“Sam,” he whispered, his voice coming out broken and harsh. “Sam. Leave us, we are done. Save yourself.”_

_Sam’s round face looked back, mournful. “Don’t you know? I can’t leave my father.”_

_“He’s my father,” Jorah croaked. “Not yours.”_

_Sam’s look of pity stung him as much as the wound he’d taken from the bear. “Oh, Jorah.”_

_Jorah closed his eyes. His last vision was one of a great winged shaped sailing overhead, spitting fire…_

“Jorah.” Someone was shaking him. He started, the fire from his dream flaring back to life. _Viserion!_ He thrashed wildly, trying to right himself, his heart pounding with sudden vigor.

But when he rubbed the sleep from his eyes it was only Lord Tully leaning over him, his red cloak stirring fitfully in the breeze, a frown on his lined face. “Ser? Ser?”

“I’m awake,” Jorah muttered. “Forgive me, I must have nodded off… how late is it?” The shadows had shifted, but the sky above was so cloudy he could not make a guess at the time.

“A bit after the midday meal. There’s like to be a nibble or two left, if you hurry.” The lord offered his hand, but Jorah waved it off. Accepting it might lower Jorah even further in his estimation. It was not a dignified thing, to be woken from a doze in the middle of the day. He got to his feet under his own power, wincing as pins and needles prickled through both of his feet. At least they weren’t frozen.

“What brings you to the godswood, my lord? I didn’t think you kept the Old Gods in the Riverlands.” His voice came out more gravelly than he intended. Damn, had he caught cold while he slept in the godswood? It was a fine temperate day, and he had endured worse on the wind-pounded shores of Bear Island… but then, he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

“We don’t,” admitted Lord Tully with a laugh, “but I’ve not come for prayer.” _You and me both,_ Jorah thought. “Our queen is looking for you.”

“ _Our_ queen?” Jorah started.

“Yes, that’s why I was meeting with her—pledging her the support of the Riverlands, you know.” Lord Tully flicked his hand carelessly, as if this had been a foregone conclusion, and beckoned for Jorah to follow him. He took a moment to study Edmure, who he had not seen since the tourney where he met Lynesse. Back then he’d been little more than a boy. Edmure had competed in the tourney, just as Jorah had, but he had been unhorsed early and without ceremony by Ser Boros Blount. It must have been one of Edmure’s earliest tourneys, to judge by his age and behavior. He might have won against Ser Boros if he’d spent more time readying himself and less time flirting with Lyla Crakehall, he recalled. Had the man changed at all from his teenage self? “I promised her she can count on my voice as well as the men remaining to me. The men may not mean much anymore, I grant you,” he admitted. “Our strength is not what it was before the the war. But having a second kingdom in her camp will make the thing look rather different, will it not? The other lands will have to sit up and take notice of her. Perhaps my nephew will be inspired to join us before long.”

“That would be ideal,” Jorah agreed. The trees were thinning out around them and the clamor of the castle was just starting to be audible. It did nothing for Jorah’s mood. His mind was still cloudy with sleep, and the frightening dream he’d had under the weirwood tree did not make the decision about what to do with Sam’s information any clearer. He hoped Lord Tully had not sought him out with his own agenda. “You have not said why the Queen needs me.”

“No, well…” Lord Tully hustled him past a group of women chattering around a well. Smallfolk all, most ignored them as they passed; but the pitch of their conversation went up. A few, at least, had marked his and Edmure’s conversation, even with their faces turned away. Even when they were well past, Edmure kept his voice low. “Smallfolk have ears as big as any lord’s.”

“True.” His opinion of Edmure improved.

“As I was saying. The Queen received a raven while I was speaking with her. She did not share the contents with me, but the letter put her on edge, and she asked for you at once. I checked in the yard and Ser Kyle told me you went off to the godswood.”

The only letter he knew Daenerys had been expecting was a report from Daario Naharis in Meereen, but she would not need him for that. Would not _want_ him for that, if this letter was anything like the last. In it, Daario had entreated her to summon him to Westeros, “lord husband or no lord husband,” where, presumably, he expected to take up his old position as her lover and sworn sword. The thought of him and Jon dueling over the _khaleesi_ did not bring Jorah the pleasure he hoped for. No, this would be something else. News of Lady Yara, perhaps? “Did you see who the letter was from?” he asked sharply, lengthening his stride.

“Looked like the seal of House Glover, Ser,” said Edmure with regret.

Edmure’s guess was correct, he found out, for when they entered Daenerys’ solar she and Jon were already deep in conversation with cousin Lyanna. A few of her bannermen had been sent to Deepwood Motte after the first war council at Winterfell, he recalled. His cousin’s pointy little face was taut with a concern beyond her years. _She is too young to be dealing with so much, just a girl,_ he fretted. _Maege, what should I do with her?_ If there were ghosts in Winterfell, none of them spoke with Maege’s voice. There was no answer to his silent entreaty except Edmure’s throat-clearing.

“Your Grace? I brought you Ser Jorah.” He looked straight at Daenerys as he said it. _Does he expect another knighthood?_

“Thank you, my lord. Join us, both of you.” His queen patted the single empty seat next to her. Nobody moved.

“Ah, I’ll just—stand, shall I?” suggested Lord Tully, and tucked himself into a corner. He was tall enough that he had to stoop.

Daenerys looked on, mildly amused, as Lord Tully rearranged himself to his comfort and satisfaction. Jorah took the moment to sneak a look at his cousin. There were no tears on her face—Maege would have taught her to keep those to herself—but she looked a lot more subdued than the last time he’d seen her. Nothing good could have happened to those men she’d sent into the wolfswood. “The news from Deepwood Motte is not good, is it?” he asked her in an undertone.

A subtle, short jerk of her head; _no._

Once Lord Tully made himself comfortable, Jon took up the reins of conversation. “We’ve a letter from Sybelle Glover this morning,” he announced.

Edmure frowned in his corner. “Sybelle? Has something happened to her husband?”

“Nothing except that he claims Sansa is the true Queen in the North,” Daenerys sniped. For once Jorah could not agree with her ire. _Lord Glover is more right than he knows._

“That doesn’t _matter_ ,” Jon complained. “He refuses to bring his family back to Winterfell. Jorah, look at this.” He handed over a short, terse letter.

> _To King Consort Jon Snow:_
> 
> _My husband has received your summons to Winterfell and refuses to comply. He says he will not obey an order from anyone except your sister Sansa, his true Queen in the North. I pray you, show him mercy like you did Eddard Umber and Alys Karstark; Robett has not been himself since his brother disappeared. I do not share his views, and my Gawen and Erena are only babies. Please remember that._
> 
> _Signed, Sybelle Locke Glover_
> 
> _P.S. If Lady Mormont is still with you at Winterfell, please tell her we found a few of her scouts in the woods. At least, we think they are her scouts; they carried a banner bearing the sigil of House Mormont. Their faces are too ruined to tell who they were in life. We have buried them with all due honor in the lichyard._

Wordlessly, he passed the parchment to Lord Tully, who skimmed it as they waited in silence. “A brave woman,” he said at last, “but faithless. I hope my own wife would not write such a letter about me.”

“I hope you never put your wife in a position to choose between her duty and her children’s lives,” Jon murmured.

“Not what I meant to imply at all, my lord—”

“My _king_ ,” Daenerys stressed. “If you truly mean to declare for me.”

“Ah, yes, of course. My—my king.” Edmure looked ill. _This one has no more love for Jon than his sister did,_ Jorah observed.

Jon stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. “Why are we wasting time with this?” he thundered. “The Glovers are all going to die because of my stupidity! Robett can rot in his castle for all I care, but if he won’t let his wife and children come to safety, he’s certainly not going to send his smallfolk to us. Hundreds of people will be lost, fighters we could use!”

“Bear Island is not far from Deepwood Motte.” He did not realize right away that the small, warbly voice came out of his cousin. “If they have some warning the wights are coming, they might be able to escape. The small garrison I left at home would welcome them.”

“Lyanna, they’re not going to _have_ any warning,” Jon explained, with a patience that said they had already discussed this. “It won’t be like the Last Hearth, where the smallfolk saw Viserion coming and ran. Bran has seen the army of the dead in the wolfswood. They move slow and silent as meltwater. They can’t give any hint of their next move, because they don’t think…”

“If your scouts are dead, the Others must be in the area already.” His cousin choked back a sob as Daenerys laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Wolkan sent a raven back to warn them, just in case, but…”

“Lady Glover might flee whether or not her husband stays,” Lyanna pleaded, as if she hoped someone would agree with her. Jorah wished he could share her optimism. As a child, there had always been commerce with Deepwood Motte, and Robett and his brother Galbart were frequent guests to Bear Island. There was nothing to suggest that had changed since he left. Lady Glover and the children might be the closest thing to family Lyanna had left… _other than me._ “She isn’t like Robett, she’s smart. She’ll find a way.”

“I hope so,” Jon said gently. “But until we hear otherwise, I think we have to assume Deepwood Motte is lost to us, and the wolfswood with it.”

“But—”

Edmure cleared his throat again. Jorah wondered if he had caught cold in the godswood as well, looking for him. “If I might make a suggestion—can’t we ask Brandon to check on them? However… however he does that?” The lines between his drawn eyebrows told Jorah that no one had explained much of Brandon’s ability to Lord Tully, which was interesting.

“I can ask, but…” Jon had begun to pace a tight circle around the room. Jorah had to pull in his legs to avoid tripping his king. “It doesn’t really work like that, Lord Tully. Bran can view whatever event he wants, but he has to be very specific. It’s easy for him to see things that have already happened, but the present and future...” He sighed. “It’s very complicated. He can’t just decide to look at Deepwood Motte and know what is happening there _right now_.”

“So what do we do?” Jorah interrupted, feeling like he had been silent for too long. “Deepwood Motte is gone, for all intents and purposes. I see Alys Karstark and her people arrived already. What of the envoys you sent to Hornwood?”

“Nothing yet.” Daenerys frowned. “We’re not even certain who holds the castle now, to be honest.”

“Didn’t Lord Hornwood have a bastard son..?” he started.

“Being fostered at Deepwood Motte.” Silence.

Lord Tully stirred in his corner, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, a pose of feigned carelessness. “We’ll find out who’s there soon enough. Lord Manderly called for his granddaughters to join him here at Winterfell, and most of his bannermen. The Woolfields will have to go right past Hornwood on the way here.”

“And you know this, how?” Jon challenged.

Edmure shrugged. “Friendly chit-chat.”

“We’ll need to find room for them, too, then,” Jon murmured. “We’re running out of towers.”

A sudden memory assailed Jorah’s senses, returning him to the hearth in his cramped little room, Mother Mole at his side. _“I have seen Winterfell rebuilt, its two razed towers growing from piles of ruined bricks within its walls.”_ He could almost feel the warmth of the flames, the memory was so vivid. He’d forgotten all about it, what with training the northmen at arms. Was this what she meant? That the Burned Tower would be rebuilt to house Lord Manderly and his ilk? What else had she said?

“Have Lady Stark see to it,” his queen suggested, rising. “The Manderlys may take the bottom floor of the First Keep and Samwell’s library, if she can find no other place. Lady Mormont, if you have any other suggestions for reaching the Glovers, my ears are always open.”

Lyanna glanced up at the royal couple, nodding her appreciation, though her eyes were still rimmed red.

“Lord Tully,” Daenerys said, “I thank you for your declaration of fealty. That, and the men you brought to our aid, have earned you a position of trust, I think. You may have Olenna Tyrell’s seat on my council henceforth.”

Shocked, Jorah looked to Jon. Had he known? But Jon seemed just as surprised as he. “Dany,” her husband urged, “Don’t you think we should wait until the army of the dead is taken care of before handing out appointments?”

“This is my decision,” she said, with icy firmness. “We’ll speak no more of it now. Jorah, I’d like a word, if you will.”

As eager as he was to speak with his queen, Lyanna’s red eyes gave him pause. Maege would give him a clout in the ear if he let her daughter go without trying to comfort her. “If I might—a moment with my cousin, _khaleesi_ …”

She looked inclined to grant him his moment, but Lyanna herself demurred. “I’m all right, cousin,” she said with a willful conviction so like Maege’s it made his heart hurt. “My men served me well and nobly. They will not be forgotten. When I can go home again I will stop at Deepwood Motte and visit them.”

“They can ask for nothing more.” Jon patted her on the shoulder. “We’ll let you know as soon as we hear something from Lady Glover. Why don’t we go to the godswood and say a prayer for her and the children…” And they went out together, Lyanna unafraid to weep and sniffle in front of her king.

“Jorah.” Left alone, Daenerys seemed diminished, somehow smaller with fewer people around her. “I have something to tell you.”

“Me too, _khaleesi_.” A surprise. Had Sam come to her, too?

“I don’t know if you will want to hear this.” His queen looked at her lap. “But I’m with child. Due in seven or eight moons. Maester Wolkan has confirmed it.”

That was the last thing he wanted to hear. Not because he loved her, no, not anymore; those feelings were long gone. Mostly. Jon would be wonderful father, and she’d so longed for a child after the loss of Rhaego. But… _every child knows that the Targaryens have always danced too close to madness._ The child would have Targaryen blood on both sides.

“That is wonderful, _khaleesi_ ,” he said, with as much forced happiness as he could muster. “An heir for you and Jon! The North will rejoice. Are you pleased?”

“Very pleased,” agreed his queen. A smile crept over her face. “It was such a surprise! But I started feeling ill when I woke in the mornings, and one day my dinner tasted off, so I started thinking…” She shrugged. “Oh, I’m so glad I don’t have to keep it from you any longer! Jon is fit to burst with the news, but I wanted to tell you before we announce it to everyone.” She beamed with such radiance that the room felt brighter.

“Oh? You’ve not told anyone else yet?” It was not lost on him that her special friendship still filled him with a warm glow.

“Missandei was with me when Wolkan examined me, and Jon has told his siblings. That’s it.” Suddenly she laughed and leaned forward in her chair. “No matter what they may think of me, they are thrilled to have a niece or nephew. Lady Stark came to me this morning and offered to make the baby blanket—a tradition of some kind in their family, Jon tells me. Can you picture it? It was almost friendly.”

“Almost,” he said gravely, and she laughed again.

“Well, I wanted to tell you before you heard it in the Great Hall tomorrow. That’s all.” His queen was still smiling. His wayward thoughts drifted back to Sam’s news and his own musings about Targaryen madness. Should he say something? That dragon had already left the egg, as they said, nothing he did could make it otherwise. But she looked so happy. _No. I WILL tell her. But not now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter yet! Sorry for the delay, I thought I only needed to add a few paragraphs to this, edit for spelling/grammar, and post--but I ended up re-writing the entire thing. Only Jorah's conversation with Wolkan remains of the original draft. It be like that sometimes 😒 There was a whole section with Qhono that was cut, it'll have to wait for the next Jorah chapter I guess.  
> I hope you all are enjoying Edmure as much as I am because we will be seeing him again next week. But from whose POV??


	16. Gilly II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilly has an unwelcome encounter in the godswood, and later finds herself doing a favor for Sansa. Bran borrows a book.

It had been many years since she’d lived at Craster’s Keep—a lifetime, really; Little Sam’s lifetime—but Gilly’s hunting instincts had not deserted her. She was grateful for it. A wrong turn taken, a small blow to Sam’s fortunes, and she might find herself scavenging for her next meal again. So she practiced, keeping a sharp eye out for the movement of rabbits or squirrels when she was in the woods, or birds when she was in the castle. At this very moment she was moving stealthily through the frozen undergrowth, sweeping her eyes across the path for any sudden twitching movement or burst of color against the green-dappled ground. _You could just go to the kitchens and ask for a snack,_ her inner voice reasoned, but she dismissed it out of hand. Snacks from the kitchens were well and good for castle-bred ladies, but she was a woman of the Free Folk.

There! Under the bush! Her quarry was waiting, silent and still but for the waving of the wind, but she was skilled enough to spot it. With a yelp of joy she leapt forward and seized it, avoiding the prickers of the dead vines that surrounded her prey. Gilly crammed the handful of winter berries in her mouth and smiled, tart juice bursting on her tongue.

She was in the glass gardens, where the Starks used to grow fruit and vegetables even in the depths of the winter years. The gardens were dead now, destroyed in the sack of the castle, but some things still flourished under the blanket of snow, winter berries and carrots and potatoes and other things that grew under the ground. On her first visit she’d even found a few cabbages, withered but serviceable. Probably she should tell the cook or Jon or someone that there was still a meagre harvest to be collected, but she dreaded doing so, enjoying the gardens as she did. It didn’t matter to her that some of the windows were damaged. The sun (when it was out) turned the world around her all different shades of yellow and green, her favorite colors, the colors of growing things. On top of that, everyone else stayed away from the gardens, so it was a quiet place for her to read or think or just get away from the Sams for a few minutes.

Today she had come out to read _Hardhome_ by Maester Wyllis in the feeble sunshine and escape the smoke of Sam’s fire for a while. The clamor of the castle had faded to a distant buzz as she walked further in, and she felt the weight of anxiety lift from her shoulders. She could almost imagine herself in the Haunted Forest again. The only challenge to the illusion was the guards shouting to each other at the North Gate, but she found it reassuring rather than distracting.

Gilly found a convenient stump and settled in, gnawing on an apple from her pocket as she turned to a chapter about giants. Maester Wyllis was of the opinion that the giants were just as intelligent as men, but more prone to savage behavior. She knew Wyllis had trained at the Citadel and surely knew what he was talking about, but she had seen savage behavior from all kinds of men, even ones said to be noble. Maybe it wasn’t so, back when he was writing. In truth she was looking forward to the end; Lady Karstark had brought a cartload of new books with her when she came to Winterfell, several of which were authored in Essos, and Gilly was eager to get stuck in to one of those.

She’d been sitting there for about three quarters of an hour, munching on her apple and occasionally snorting in disgust at _Hardhome_ , when she first heard it. A distant shuffling, too slow to be a squirrel, too determined to be the wind. _Maybe a cat?_ she thought. She paused in her reading, shoulders hunched, listening; but there was nothing else, just the faraway guards japing at each other. Maybe the book had spooked her, got her thinking of giants and Thenns.

A few minutes later and there it was again, a slow slithering noise through the dead and drifting leaves. _Ghost?_ Jon’s reassurances aside, Ghost still scared her a bit. Thankfully he’d be easy to spot in here, his white fur bright and obvious against the tangle of dried and desiccated brown things. She began to get a creeping feeling up the back of her neck. _Ghost knows me, he won’t hurt me,_ she reassured herself. _And the guards are only a stone’s throw away._ But in this still and remote corner of the castle, the knowledge didn’t sooth her any.

There came a sharp snap, much closer than before, unmistakeably the sound of breaking glass. “Who’s there?” she called, heart pounding, and snatched up her book. She stood, pulling her cloak about her and casting a worried glance over the blackened, frozen plants. Nothing moved.

Very slowly, she reached for her belt. She had carried a knife since working in Mole’s Town, but of late she’d taken to leaving it in her room; she never expected to need protection within Winterfell’s walls—from anything living—and it would be too easy for Little Sam would get hold of it and do himself an injury. He was grabbing at everything these days. She was dismayed but not surprised to find the knife missing now. “Who’s there?” she called again.

The watcher fled, caught out at last, tearing a noisy path of destruction through the bushes and brambles. Heartbeat thrumming in her ears, Gilly whirled and followed. “Stop!” Her breaths were coming fast and unsteady, and her voice sounded small in the dense, close growth of the gardens. She came at last to the end of the path to see a small dark shape escaping through a broken window. A teenage boy, or perhaps a very small woman. Arya? _No, she is cleverer and quieter than that._

The watcher, whoever it was, was long gone by the time she pulled her skirts through the brambles to reach the broken window, cursing the thick fabrics the whole way. Her fear had receded by then, leaving her feeling silly for jumping to conclusions. Had it it only been Ghost, after all, transformed into something more frightening by her troubled mind? She knelt there, amongst frozen, gnarled vines, searching for the direwolf’s tracks. To her dismay the ground was too frozen for footprints of any kind… except for one deep gouge where something in boots had launched itself over the windowsill. The print was very small, maybe even a child’s.

Hmm. Little Sam was too young to be up to such tricks, and besides, he was with Lady Cerwyn. She didn’t know the other children at Winterfell, but there were plenty who might think it was funny to throw rotten vegetables at a woman of the Free Folk, and a few who might know her for Craster’s daughter as well. Any of them could be to blame.

A shame, she thought, brushing crumbled leaves and snow off her skirts. The glass gardens were so pretty, even with the smashed windows. But she wouldn’t sit and wait for naughty boys to pelt her with wilted cabbages. She sighed, plucked another winter berry from among the weeds and placed it on her tongue.

Instinct told her to keep to her rooms for a few days, but Sam’s future wife could not let rude children intimidate her. At Horn Hill she would be surrounded by quarreling bannermen, resentful servants, and—Talla had warned her—highborn ladies who might think themselves a more appropriate match for Lord Tarly. She’d need to grow a thicker skin unless she wanted to spend all her days crying and wringing her hands. No, she should find out who was tailing her immediately and speak to his mother. (Or have Sam speak to his mother.) And she thought she knew just how to find out…

Every morning of late, she had noticed Arya wheeling her brother Brandon out onto the covered bridge connecting the Great Keep and the armory. She hadn’t paid him much attention, so busy was she with little Sam’s morning routine at that hour, but now that she thought about it she seemed to remember Brandon spending most of the morning parked there observing the yard. Maybe he liked the fresh air, or just the company; as far as she knew, he spent the rest of his time shut up in his chambers. But for a few hours each day, he would be available to mingle with the lords and ladies and the smallfolk. And her. If he wasn’t in one of his strange trances, he might be willing to have a conversation about who was following her. A memory of the Nighfort swam up to the surface of her mind, unbidden. He’d only been a boy then, but how many people could he have met in the Wall’s ruins? Maybe he remembered her.

When Gilly woke the next day, she bundled up and headed straight for the covered bridge, armed with her book and an excuse about wanting to read out of doors. _I hope he believes me._ Could he see what was in her head, or did he just know facts about things? No one had bothered to explain it to her, and to be honest, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. It would be nasty, to know what was in other people’s minds, unnatural. Nothing she ever wanted for herself.

The ground was covered with a rime of frost when she stepped out of the Bell Tower, where she and Sam had their rooms. A trail of her wet black footprints followed her to the bridge. It would be easy for someone to mark her movements today, just what she wanted to avoid. _Maybe I should go indoors to hide my tracks,_ she worried. In the Great Hall there would be hot cider on offer, and warm morning buns; would Bran look more favorably on her if she brought a meal to share? But Gilly knew she was just putting off her errand. It still made her stomach churn to speak to a lord, even one so much younger than herself.

Everyone with sense was indoors that morning, scared off by the falling temperature. Another storm was brewing off to the west, she thought, but it wouldn’t be upon them for a few more hours. The wind wasn’t up yet. Only Bran and a guard who seemed to be keeping an eye on him were present on the bridge when she crossed the yard. Her heart beat at bit faster at the prospect of interrupting and asking a favor; he was still a prince, no matter how friendly he’d been when they met at the Nightfort. The guard gave her a hard stare and shifted to reveal his sword at his hip.

Bran was less disposed to suspicion. “Hello, Gilly,” he said pleasantly, before she came into his line of view. “I’m surprised to see anyone else out. Snow soon.”

She stopped short, her face flaming. “Yes, I know. I thought I’d do some reading outside while it’s nice.”

The guard grunted. “Nice? You bloody wildlings aren’t happy unless your nethers are frozen, are you?”

“This isn’t _real_ cold, not yet,” she shot back. Conversations like this were exactly the reason why she’d started reading in the glass gardens in the first place.

“It’s no matter,” said Bran, ending the argument before it began. “You can sit here with me if you want. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

Sam’s warning about Bran and his ways did not make his predictions any more comfortable. “Yes,” she declared, and hoped her voice was steady. “I thought you might welcome some company.”

Ignoring the bluster of his guard, Bran turned his faraway gaze on her. “I always welcome old friends, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you a chair. Hewle, would you..?”

Since he couldn’t disobey a direct request from his lord, the surly man brought her a crate to sit on. She thought she ought to acknowledge it regardless of his manner. “Thank you,” she said frostily, the way she had once seen Queen Selyse speak to Davos, and settled herself. With the thick padding of her gown, it wasn’t even that uncomfortable.

“When we met before, you didn’t know how to read,” Bran observed when his guard had returned to the shelter of the doorway. “You’ve learned in just a few years. That’s very impressive.”

“I’ve had to,” she said, unsettled. “Sam likes me to help him with his work.”

“Is he looking for more information on the Others?”

“What?”

“Your book. _Hardhome_.” He pointed. “Finding anything useful? I haven’t read it myself… haven’t needed to.”

Gilly decided that she didn’t like his smile. There was none of the sweet boy Brandon about it anymore. “Actually I don’t like it very much. Maester Wyllis says a lot of things that aren’t true at all.” She was thinking in particular of his straightforward statement that giants were not intelligent creatures. Even Craster had known better than that, and he detested book learning.

“That’s the problem with maesters. Too many of them write about what they think, instead of what they know.” Brandon left a pause there. She knew not why until there was a sudden clangor from the yard; it sounded as though someone had dropped a suit of plate armor. _Oh, I really don’t like talking with him._ “Still,” he resumed, “I think my sister might find it interesting. May I borrow it?”

Surprised, she offered the book automatically. “You don’t need to ask, it’s yours. Or Jon’s. It belongs to Winterfell, anyway.”

“Thanks.” Brandon slipped the tome into his robes. “Arya thanks you too, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Talking about me?” Jumping in surprise, Gilly whirled around to find Arya materializing out of the shadows, Sansa trailing behind her. _How do they do that?_ All highborn women studied how to move quietly in their intricate costumes, she had learned from Sam’s sister, but Arya’s abilities to move in stealth and and silence bordered on the magical. She wondered again, fleetingly, if Arya was the one following her.

“Oh—milady. Miladies,” she stuttered. “I was only asking Brandon if I could sit with him and read.”

“I would think the library, or your own chambers, would be warmer.” Sansa’s tone had a sharp edge on it. There was a nerviness about her that said she might fidget, if she hadn’t been too well trained not to.

“Well…” That was true. What excuse could she offer? Ah, and now they were looking at her! Throwing caution to the wind, she said, “Someone’s been following me around the castle. I’m not fast enough to get a look at them, but I thought Brandon would tell me…” Her words trailed off into nothingness. She’d never heard anything so stupid, now that she said it. She wasn’t important enough for anyone to spy on. In her mind’s eye she could see Sam shaking his head with a rueful smile.

“Someone’s following you?” Arya’s hand went to her dagger. Probably not her, then.

“Yes, but… well, it’s probably just a child, isn’t it? Wanting to be cruel, just because I’m a Free Folk. I know you don’t like us here, most of you.”

Sansa and Arya exchanged a sister-look, the kind she used to share with Dyah. For the space of a breath she missed her sister terribly. “Even so,” said Sansa with great care, “I don’t want any ladies harassed under my roof.”

Gilly did not believe anyone was truly harassing her, not like she’d had at Castle Black or Mole’s Town. She was going to feel very silly if Brandon revealed it was only a Winter Town child playing a prank. “It’s probably nothing,” she demurred. “I’ll go, shall I?”

“If it will ease your mind, it’s nothing to be concerned about,” said Bran from his chair. “Your mysterious spectator will show his face before long.”

Arya huffed. “Bran, don’t _do_ that, it frightens the hell out of people.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bran, with no hint of apology. He did not bother to look at any of them, his eyes on the drifting snowflakes. His sister walked over and gave the back of his head a sharp tap.

Sansa took her arm, leading her away from her two squabbling siblings. “My brother is… well, you see how he is,” she confided in a low voice. “He sees things, which can be very helpful, if a little frightening. If he says it’s nothing to worry about, I believe him.” She sighed deeply. “He doesn’t tell us much, lest we meddle in our fates to make them more pleasant. I say, what’s the use of his gift if we can’t act on it??”

Sansa’s frustration with her brother was clear. Would it be right to try and soothe her? Sam had such odd ideas about what she should and shouldn’t say to people. “I met him before, you know,” she said in a low voice. Could Bran tell what she was saying even if she whispered? “When he was younger. He was a very polite boy, then. I know something strange must have happened to make him like this.”

“You’ve met before? Now that _is_ interesting. You always have some new bit of information to share, Gilly.” Sansa, recovered from her brief bout of anxiety, took a brisk tone that meant she was changing topics. “If you’re truly worried about this person following you, I could have one of the guards escort you back to your chambers…”

“I can find my own way.” She could hear herself getting annoyed. Well, why shouldn’t she be? It wasn’t like she was worried about being _stabbed_. Maybe she’d been a little spooked yesterday, but now she was in the heart of the castle. Gilly had an inkling that some overblown account of this would make its way back to Sam, and he’d be cross.

“Suit yourself.” Glancing over her shoulder at the guard, Sansa leaned closer and whispered, “It’s not as though they’re busy, are they?”

The guard in question, reassured by the sisters’ presence, had lost interest in Bran and started scratching himself. She couldn’t help but giggle. “I guess not.” She retreated down the stairs with an idea of visiting the library until she thought of a better plan.

“Actually, Gilly?” Sansa called after her. “I’m busy with my family just now, but won’t you join me for tea later? I think, oh… an hour or so before dinner should serve, if you’re not busy.”

Tea? With a lady?? Even Jonelle had not invited her to tea. She could practice her _etiquette_ , a word she had recently learned. And great ladies always had the best sweets. “I’ll see you then, Lady Sansa,” she agreed, trying to hide the smile that had sprung up at the invitation. She rotated on the stairs to perform a quick curtsy. Thankfully, no one else saw her wobble and lose her footing.

Five o’clock found her dithering outside Sansa’s rooms, stomach coiled in knots. Was her gown nice enough to sit with Lady Sansa? Her hair? Her manners? And would Sansa’s chambers be very grand? The guest room at Horn Hill had been so pretty and fine she was afraid to touch anything. All of Horn Hill, actually, had been as cold and impersonal as an open plain, and Sam’s family was of lower nobility than the Starks, or so she understood from her husband’s painstaking explanations. So she breathed a sigh of relief when Sansa led her in to a cheerful, sunny room full of plump cushions in bright colors, with a welcoming fire crackling in the hearth. Gilly thought it might be comfortable if she weren’t so nervous. Sansa offered a cup of steaming tea in greeting and she accepted, delighted when she didn’t spill a drop.

“I must apologize for not inviting you to tea before this,” Sansa confessed as they sipped from two fragile white clay mugs. “Things have been so unsettled lately… but that is no excuse. I am making a point to entertain all the ladies cooped up here at Winterfell, and I understand you are to become Lady Tarly before long, so that includes you! My good wishes for your marriage.” With a small smile she lifted her cup, and it was a moment before Gilly realized she was offering a toast. _Damn! And I was doing so well._

“Thank you. It’s so kind to let me and my husband and Little Sam stay under your roof.” _That’s not right!_ “I mean my _future_ husband,” she bumbled, “But you see, I think of Sam as my husband already.” A blush spread across her cheeks. “We have been married for years by the laws of my people.”

“If only those south of the Wall would recognize that, hmm?” She rolled her eyes, and Gilly smiled hesitantly back. Southrons didn’t usually respect the ways of the Free Folk... “I want you to know that you and Samwell are welcome to use Winterfell’s godswood for your marriage, or the Sept when it is repaired. Of course, if you prefer to return to Horn Hill to marry when things are more certain, you will go with the fondest friendship of House Stark.”

“Thank you, milady.” She stared into her cup, watching steam curl out of the hot tea. Was she only here as a favor to Sam? “The godswood is very nice, but he wants his mother and sister to attend the wedding.”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t?” Sansa set down her cup and studied her with an intensity that rivaled Jon’s. “What do _you_ want? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I do want Lady Talla and his mother to be there,” she said, surprised. “They’re lovely. But see, there isn’t a weirwood at Horn Hill.” They’d arrived limp, dirty, and despondant after many days of travel, with the extra worry of embarrassing Sam in front of his family hovering over Gilly’s head like a storm cloud. However, his mother and sister paid no attention to the state of their hair and clothes and greeted them at the gate with excitement. Gilly had been so relieved she’d cried. After a bath—in a _copper tub!_ —she’d asked directions to the godswood to give thanks; but growing there, in the heart of the wood, was an apple tree instead of a weirwood. The apples didn’t taste any different, or more godly, to her. If there was no weirwood they might as well be married in the Sept, a cold gray room filled with stern people carved from stone. The lifeless would outnumber the living! A proper wedding should be outside, where gods and men and birds and beasts could all witness. There were no gods in the south, and the animals were strange and the people stranger. All of a sudden she found her throat was tight. “I don’t really like the sept there, milady, if you’ll forgive my stupidness. It’s not anywhere I can see myself being married. I...” she dropped her voice. “I am worried the gods will be angry, if I wed where they cannot see.”

“Hmm.” Lady Sansa swirled her cup of tea, which Gilly now noticed she had not touched. She must have a small appetite. Women, she was learning, were expected to take dainty bites and stop before their plate was empty. Lady Melessa had suggested she set down her knife between each bite to make it easier. Just another way she had failed Sam—years of hunger had taught Gilly to grasp at anything edible with both hands and feel no shame.

“I know _you_ are already married,” she said, hesitating over every word. She had never actually seen Sansa and Lord Tyrion together. She had an idea they didn’t like each other, but she wanted the attention off of herself. “Was that in the sept?”

“It was in _a_ sept, but not here.” There was a moment of silence, which grew until Gilly’s reserve was replaced with a prickly discomfort. Had she put a foot wrong? Sam had told her it was polite to ask other ladies about their husbands and children. “It’s not a nice story.”

A wave of embarrassment washed over her. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize, you had nothing to do with it. Tyrion is not a bad man, but nor do I think of him as my husband. He was forced upon me.”

“Oh.” Faint surprise registered. Was that the way of it in the Seven Kingdoms, too? But men didn’t steal women here, it wasn’t allowed. “My first husband was forced upon me, too, milady. It was awful. I’m sorry.”

Lady Sansa’s fingers tightened around her mug so suddenly it skidded across the tabletop, the hot tea inside threatening to slop over the rim. It was the first display of emotion she’d ever seen from Sansa, who usually kept a better hold on her temper than Jon. _But nobody is calm all the time,_ she realized. _There’s more to her than what she shows in the yard and the Great Hall._ It reminded her of the first time she’d seen her own clear reflection in a mirror, instead of a dirty pond; details she had never seen or suspected before were laid bare, with no film or fuzz on them. Those things got in the way, sometimes.

With that unnerving realization came a strong urge to change the subject. “I don’t think you asked me here to talk about men. Was there something else?”

She knew she’d got it right when Sansa offered her another small smile. “I see you don’t beat around the bush. Very well, I do have a request to make of you. It concerns one man in particular, my uncle Lord Tully. What do you make of him?”

Lord Tully... All Gilly know about him was that he came to Winterfell in the company of a man named Jaime Lannister who everyone seemed to hate. The arrival of Lannister had stirred the court so much that Lord Tully had been quite forgotten in the hubbub. She didn’t think she could pick him out of the crowd, even. Wait, was this Lannister kin to Sansa’s husband? The families of the Seven Kingdoms were so confusing, she didn’t think she could ever learn to keep them straight.

“I don’t think I know who he is, milady,” she confessed.

“Good.” This was not the answer she had expected. “Lord Tully is my uncle—my mother’s brother,” she explained when Gilly looked at her with a question on her lips. “But I have not seen him since I was very young. I don’t know his character. You see, his wife is… someone my family does not trust,” she said, measuring out her words as if she feared there wouldn’t be enough left for later. “But he was also forced into the marriage. He may be fighting against it, as we did, but he may have been corrupted by this woman instead. She might be instructing him from afar by raven even now. I don’t know him well enough to judge. I need an independent source.”

“But how can I help? I’ve never met him,” she protested. “I don’t know any lords. I’ve only met King Stannis, and he was… scary.” Only as she finished did she remember Jon was a lord. _But Jon is different._

“Stannis? I was scared of him too.” How and where Sansa had encountered the man, she couldn’t imagine, but her rueful smile was enough to prove she’d known him. “My uncle is not so stern, I think. No matter whether his wife has gotten her claws into him, I don’t think him a _bad_ man. Misled, perhaps.” At last she lifted her tea to her lips and sipped. “I’m to join him for a private dinner in about an hour’s time. If he’s smart he will have prepared for it, and will have glib answers to all of my questions. But while he is occupied with me…” She left the sentence dangling.

Gilly seized upon it. She _should_ be free at dinnertime. Usually she and Sam were penned up in the library all throughout the afternoon and evening, often taking meals at their shared desk. The only interruptions to their dull routine were an occasional summons from Jon, or if Maester Wolkan came around… “That’s right after the letters are delivered.” A beat of silence, but she thought Sansa nodded, urging her on. “I could… look at his messages?”

Sansa’s smile grew, she could see dimples now. A bubble of pride swelled in her chest. Sam could keep his books, she was _helping_!

“Exactly. He won’t recognize you so long as you keep your head down and say you are a maid. And you needn’t do anything more than a curious maid would—just nose about in his correspondence, see if he’s writing anything…”

She had assumed Gilly could read without even thinking about it, which warmed her through. “How will I recognize it? What is his wife’s name?”

“Roslin,” she seethed. “Roslin Frey, although she will be styling herself ‘Tully’ now. The seal on the letter will be in blue wax—a fish. If you do find anything, don’t pocket it, just read what you can and tell me later. I’ll join my uncle in his rooms at six. When he lets me in, count to one hundred and come in after me. Pretend you are, I don’t know, cleaning the bedpan or something.”

“What if he catches me while I’m searching?” Her hands were beginning to tremble with excitement, though she well knew it would later turn to fright. This was just like something out of _Fire and Blood!_

“I’ll say something to warn you,” said Sansa, leaning in, just as fervent as she. “What signal should I use, do you think? It will be easier for you to remember if you come up with it.”

A moment’s pause as she thought. “Do you know ‘The Winter Maid?’ _‘Winter maid, very pretty, and the winter flowers are sweet…’_ ”

“Yes, we sing that one south of the Wall, too.”

They nibbled on crackers and drank tea until it was time to put their plan into action. Sansa disappeared for several minutes into an inner chamber and returned wearing a blue dress laced up the front with red ribbons. “Tully colors,” she explained as she fussed with her hair. “It can’t hurt to remind him of my mother.” But in her haste, she’d snagged a lock of hair on a hangnail and tugged it out of her neat braid. It floated down next to her face, taunting.

Sansa seized a pin and sank onto a velvet footstool before her mirror, trying to tame the errant lock of hair. When her glare alone did not accomplish it, she scowled and reached for her hairbrush. “This will make me late,” she sighed, “And if he’s anything like Mother or Aunt Lysa, he won’t tolerate tardiness.”

Hesitantly, she reached out. “May I?..” Growing up with so many sisters, Gilly had learned to do every kind of plait you could think of. Even now she enjoyed doing a four-stranded plait, though the Sams didn’t have long enough hair to practice on them.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Would you rather be late? Milady?” Sansa regarded her in the mirror, lips pursed, as she decided something. Finally, she extended the hairbrush, saying nothing.

Gilly had her right as rain in minutes. “That’s a relief,” Sansa breathed, as she patted her newly redone plait, feeling for any bumps or snarls. She found no errors. “I think we’ll be on time. Tell me—what are we doing?” She nodded in appreciation when Gilly reeled off the plan without hesitation. “And what chore will you say you are attending to? It needs to be something that will get you into his bedchamber.”

She had already decided. “Laundry,” she stated, “I will collect his laundry and take it away.” Her time as a Mole’s Town laundress was finally coming in useful.

“Will that take long enough for you to search his room?” One arched eyebrow lifted as she waited for an answer. Gilly had the sense she was being tested. Well, she’d passed enough tests with Shireen when she learned to read.

“I’ve thought of that, I’ll say I was looking through his clothes for anything that wanted mending.”

“And if there isn’t anything?”

“Then I’ll have to rip a hole in something,” she decided, and was startled when Sansa sniggered.

They kept pace together as they left the corridor where Sansa and Jon had their rooms, descended a winding staircase, walked across the hall, back up a different staircase, and out onto a landing that led to a snug cul-de-sac of rooms. The walls here were hung with banners of red and blue and bronze, instead of the dusty pale colors of the Starks, and there were no more direwolves to be seen in the decoration.

“These are the spare family quarters,” Sansa murmured as they conferred together out of sight of Lord Tully’s room. “Uncle Benjen used to stay here when he visited…” She bowed her head briefly in remembrance, then went on. “We’ve split them between Uncle Edmure and Lord Royce. I expect my uncle’s rooms are behind that door on the left side, if the wall hangings are any clue.”

Peeking around the corner, she caught a glimpse of a banner with wavy stripes and a bright fish on it. “A trout. That is what his seal will look like?”

“Very like that, yes.” She felt a tug on her sleeve. Sansa had rearranged her face back into the one she wore during dinners in the Great Hall, all smooth bone and hard eyes and frosty smiles. There was no longer any trace of the girl who’d closed her eyes in content as Gilly plaited her hair. All of the Starks were able to put on a different face at will, she was finding out. 

She realized she must be staring. “See you in a hundred seconds,” she promised, and Sansa’s cheek twitched. She rounded the corner, as silent as ever except for a faint hum of “The Winter Maid.”

She heard the shrill _creeeee_ of a door opening, Sansa’s quiet greeting, then a deeper, musical voice that must be Lord Tully answering her. His exact words weren’t audible, but he didn’t sound as scary as King Stannis. That was a relief, whatever Sansa expected her to find in his letters.

_One, two, three, four, five…_

There was no need to feign surprise, as she’d decided to do, when Lord Tully answered the door. Sansa had not told her he was so _handsome_. Intelligent dark eyes, deep laugh lines that showed how often he smiled, and a strong clean-shaven chin. The torchlight glinted in his neat brown hair, bringing out shades of copper and russet and even a bit of red. He looked like every proud noble lord her sister had ever described in her stories all put together. _Sam. Sam is a lord, a very good one, and the the best man in the whole world._ She swallowed.

“Yes?” Even his voice was nice, as smooth and dark as the tea Sansa had given her. She swallowed again. Why was she suddenly thirsty?

“Sheets,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Sheets! I’ve come to take your sheets, milord, and the rest of your laundry.” Her face felt strange, hot and prickly, and her hands seemed too large for her body. She hid them behind her apron.

“There must be some mistake, the usual girl comes in the morning.”

“Sorrel said she might have skipped your room by mistake, milord.”

Lord Tully looked her over, considering, which gave her a shivery feeling up her back. She suppressed it and tried her best to look like a servant. At last he must have been convinced, because he said, “Come in, but be quick about it, I’m hosting my niece.”

In an instant he’d forgotten about her, resuming his conversation with Sansa as he sat down. She realized he wasn’t going to show her to his inner chamber. _Of course he isn’t, a maid would know where it is._ But she didn’t! There were two identical doors leading off the main room, both shut, with no hint of which one led to his room or where the other one went. She and Sam only had two rooms. Poor Edd only had one! What did a single man need with three rooms? _He’s not single though, he’s got a wife,_ she remembered, and this irritated her for reasons she could not name.

If Sansa realized she was having trouble, she didn’t show it. She listened intently to her uncle, eyes on his face even as she poured him a perfect cup of tea. “Yes, I’ve noticed that too,” she said in response to something, doing a perfect carefree laugh. That wasn’t what she’d sounded like giggling at Gilly’s joke in her own room. If she didn’t know their plan, though, she would’ve thought Sansa completely absorbed in the conversation. With luck, Lord Tully was too. She chose the righthand door at random.

“Girl, where are you going?” _Piss and blood!_ She revolved on the spot and saw Lord Tully squinting after her. “It’s the other door.”

“Sorry, milord,” she squeaked. Had she given herself away already? And before she’d even begun! No doubt Sansa could talk herself out of anything, but she had no such hopes for herself. Thankfully, he only rolled his eyes at her and turned his attention back to his niece.

Once behind the door, she allowed herself a deep breath. _Just a little mistake_ , the tiny voice in her head soothed, _no one else even noticed!_ Shireen had said that when Gilly wailed to her about being stupid and never remembering the difference between “a” and “ae”, and she had been right, hadn’t she? Gilly could read the Targaryen names correctly almost all the time now. After a few deep, steadying breaths she remembered that Sansa had not told her which door was the right one, probably hadn’t known, and a maid that worked in a different part of the castle might be expected to make a mistake.

While waiting for her heartbeat to slow, she gazed around Lord Tully’s chambers. They weren’t so different from her own, just larger, and untidy since he had no wife to clean up after him. A heap of clothing lay on the floor where he’d stepped out of it. Well, that would be part of her task, wouldn’t it? As she scooped the garment into her arms, searching for his hamper, she realized he had been wearing this not long ago—it was still warm. Her face grew hot again.

That wouldn’t do, at this rate the tea would be cold before she even started looking. The desk was a mess, like everything else in the room, but she could see he was working on something before Sansa arrived. A pot of blue wax was cooling over an extinguished candle. There was no trace of it left, though, unless it was in his pocket. She rifled through the snowdrift of papers covering his desk, but there was nothing, nothing that looked recent. Judging by the dried yellow and brown mug rings on many of the letters, they’d been here a long time.

Conceding defeat, she turned her attention to the neat stack of unopened letters placed off to the side. Maester Wolkan must have just delivered them. One bore the seal of a blue bird, another a black tree, the third a long, low animal that kind of looked like a dragon on green wax; but she didn’t see a single fish. Sure she must have missed it, Gilly looked through the pile again. Nothing. Maybe he didn’t like his wife any more than Sansa did.

As she stripped the bed, she wondered for the first time what she was meant to do with the laundry! She had no idea where the maids took it. There was a little prickle of shame in her belly that she chose to ignore. _You can find out where the laundry is later, just focus on the task at hand. Shut out any unnecessary detail._ Sam had told her to do that when she studied.

Something rolled off the bed with a loud _clunk_. The faint hum of conversation in the next room halted abruptly. _Damn! I hope that wasn’t expensive!.._ After a moment in which she cringed and cowered behind the bed, talk resumed, albeit at a quieter volume. Gilly offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Old Gods for watching out for her.

The object proved to be a small bottle of smoked glass, heavy for its size, with an odd squishy ball protruding from the open end, nothing like a cork or a wooden stopper. She checked—no label. It looked fancy, though. Why was Lord Tully keeping something so delicate in his bed? _Wait, it can’t be… poison??_ She’d heard of all sorts of poisons in Sam’s books, it sounded very common in the South. Oh gods, maybe she shouldn’t be touching it! With a faint squeak she tossed it onto the bedside table as if it had stung her.

Her heartbeat was quick again, her breathing unsteady. She became aware of a strong odor, not unpleasant; but then she’d heard of people among the Free Folk who smelled odd things before fits. And was her complexion more vivid than usual? The mirror over the table showed her reflection looking no different, but she didn’t know how fast poisons worked, really. She clutched the table for support. Oh, what had she gotten herself into by agreeing to this stupid plan of Sansa’s? She only wanted to help!

But what was this..? Her thumb found a spot under the table where the wood did not quite meet the table leg, and pressed in. There was much smaller clunking noise, and a drawer fell into her hand so suddenly she almost dropped it. _A secret drawer!_ Instantly her fears of poison disappeared. This really _was_ like something from Sam’s books.

Taking care to make no sound, she slid the drawer out halfway. Inside was the target she sought; a treasure trove of letters, each marked with a seal of blue wax. So Lord Tully did miss his wife after all! Enough to keep her letters hidden, and close at hand for a sleepless night. Did he read them over and over, when he couldn’t sleep? _Hmmph._

There was no order to the drawer, which was not surprising given the state of the rest of the room, so she opted for the letter that seemed the least creased. She unfolded it and held her breath. A decapitated waxen trout looked reproachfully up at her from the bottom of the letter.

> _Beloved husband,_
> 
> _I received your last letter with the breathless hope of a young maiden waiting for news of her suitor. Isn’t it strange, that we are now four years wed, and your sweet words still inspire such longing in me? For all our wedding was a disaster, the Seven have consoled me with the finest, the most loyal, the most gentle husband in the Seven Kingdoms. I give them thanks every morn when I visit the sept to pray for your well-being, and our peoples’._
> 
> _I do not understand why you bid me lead our people north to join you at Winterfell, but I have given orders for every man, woman, and child to be ready to move in seven days’ time. Jolyon disagrees with me and says Hoster should remain behind at the very least, but I told him you won't hear of it--I hope you will forgive me a falsehood or two. We will not make as good of time as you have, for many in our company are old, or very young, and weakened by winter’s privations. But perhaps it will ease our way, to have women and children among us. I have heard that the northmen take care of their own, and perhaps they will remember how steadfastly you fought for King Robb. If we are able to rest a night or two at Seagard or Castle Cerwyn, I will send word to ease your mind._
> 
> _Little Hoss misses his father, and often asks for you. I showed him on the map in your solar where you’ve gone, but he does not understand how far away Winterfell is, and each morning he seems to hope you have come back in the night. I do, too, although I know it is a fool’s hope. Hoss is otherwise happy and healthy, if a bit subdued from missing you. I am also in good health, though less happy. Every fiber of my being longs for you, my sweet Ed._
> 
> _I love you, and hope to find you well at Winterfell._
> 
> _Your devoted wife,_
> 
> _Roslin_

Gilly tutted. Lady Tully used as many words as Maester Wyllis, and said less with them. Was someone paying her by the letter?

It hadn’t been a waste of time, though, she reflected as she folded the letter. It sounded like Lady Tully was on her way here! She didn’t think Sansa knew that. In any case she hadn’t mentioned it. This Roslin didn’t sound like such a bad person—lovesick, maybe, but she had nothing mean to say about Jon or Sansa or their siblings. _Although,_ her inner voice chided, _she has to know Maester Wolkan might read this._ Thoughtful, she replaced the letter and slid the drawer closed. Was it a code? Who was Jolyon, and what was Seagard? Were these clues only Lord Tully would understand?

“Girl, what are you doing?!” Lord Tully’s voice rang out behind her. She jumped a mile, dislodging the little glass bottle again. “How long does it take to gather laundry?!”

“I’m so sorry, milord,” she squeaked, whirling around to face him, heart pounding. She pressed herself back against the side table in fright. “I—I didn’t mean no offense. It’s just, I knocked this bottle over, and wanted to replace it, milord.” Would he believe that? She felt an urge to go on, explain herself, but her inner voice admonished, _be quiet_. Craster had hit his quiet wives less often than the quarrelsome ones, maybe Lord Tully was the same way. Her jaw jutted out, pressing her lips closed.

“Why are you messing about with my things?” Lord Tully advanced until he towered over her cringing form, so close she could feel his breath on her face. It smelled like sweets. “Thought you’d pilfer my pocket while I was distracted?”

“No,” she squealed. “Really, I just knocked this over!” She shoved the tiny bottle under his nose. _What if it is poison, though? He’ll kill you!_

It did stop him, though. His face changed and he reached out for it, tentative, almost reverent. “Oh…” She could tell from the distant set of his eyes that he was no longer seeing her. “I haven’t taken good care of this, have I?” He forced a chuckle. “Forgive me, being at Winterfell… well, I seem to see enemies everywhere. But you’re harmless, aren’t you?” His eyes focused again, and she saw the man who’d greeted her at the door. “Be careful with this in future, it’s my wife’s perfume.”

Gilly barely suppressed her sigh of relief. Perfume! Why had her thoughts immediately leapt to poison?? She decided not to mention that to Sansa later. “I promise, milord. It’s just your room is the reverse of Lord Royce’s and I got confused. Your perfume is safe with me.” She offered a tremulous smile, which he did not return. Eager to bring the conversation back to normal things, she ventured, “Your wife must be very lucky, to have such nice things.”

“Well, I _hope_ she feels that way.” He turned the perfume bottle over in his fingers, lost in thought again. Gilly took the opportunity to straighten up, her back complaining after many long minutes of leaning and crouching. She was beginning to wonder what had happened to Sansa. “Do you live in Winter Town, girl? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. Sorrel has come to gather my laundry every day I’ve been here.”

“No, I came to Winterfell with—Lady Alys,” she blurted, seizing upon the first name that came to mind. _Oh, please don’t ask me about the Kar Hold,_ she wished.

“Ah.” Lord Tully shifted, looking uncomfortable, though she couldn’t say why. “Did you know Lord Rickard?”

“Not—not well, milord.” Should she know Lord Rickard??

“Just as well. I had nothing to do with his death, I promise you, little good does that do me…” His brow knitted and she again had the sense that he was no longer seeing her. He rather looked like Jon in that moment, although she knew they were not related.

“May I go? Please,” she asked, “I need to be getting back to the laundry.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” He passed a hand over his face. “Should I expect you again on the morrow, or will Sorrel be back? I don’t like having my routine disrupted.”

“Sorrel will be back, today was just a mistake.” Her palms were beginning to sweat. Why wouldn’t he let her _leave?_

“Go, then, go about your duties. And here—take this jacket, too.” He shrugged off the garment he was wearing with surprising care. She flushed all over, whether out of relief or his closeness, she didn’t know.

With Sansa absent, she carried Lord Tully’s laundry basket to a closet that looked forgotten and searched it there, disappointed that her review of his mail had yielded so little. She learned only that he changed his socks rather less often than he should. What was it with men and socks?? Her husband wore his until they almost disintegrated, and from her time in Castle Black’s laundry, she knew Edd’s were even worse.

She gave it up as a bad job and decided to return to Sansa’s chambers. With any luck, she would be waiting there for Gilly’s report. She raced back to the Great Keep, itching to share her news, and was totally unprepared to find Sansa pacing around the room, looking nervous as anything, while another woman sat at her table drinking tea.

Sansa beckoned her in. “Gilly! I was getting worried. I didn’t want to leave you, but Maester Wolkan came with what he said was a matter of great urgency. It turned out to be otherwise, but you never know with Wolkan. Did you hear my signal?”

Confused, Gilly stared at her. “No, I didn’t hear anything.” Sansa’s cheeks turned a shade pinker, and she wondered if the agreed-upon signal had been forgotten. But more importantly, why were they speaking in front of this strange woman? She did not look much like a lady that Sansa would be friends with. Her clothing was similar to Gilly’s own, drab and sturdy, and matted here and there with flour. And although she was round enough to be highborn, almost as large as Sam, her face was a horror. Deep wheals covered one cheek and disappeared into her high collar, and part of her ear was missing. With a prickle of hot shame, she realized she was staring. She was being unkind, she knew. _Shireen had a scarred face, too._

Sensing the direction of her thoughts, Sansa was quick to reassure. “Gilly, this is Dariya, our cook, as well as my good friend. Have you met? She knows your errand and has my full confidence—we can speak freely in front of her.”

Dariya’s good cheek dimpled and she inclined her head to Gilly in greeting. “Well met, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “So, the new Lady Tarly! Or near enough as to make no matter. I must say, I was surprised to learn he was taking a wildling wife, but you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? That does make it easier to find a good match. I haven’t such high hopes for myself!” She gave a hearty laugh.

So this was the woman who was responsible for all the disappointing food they’d eaten these last weeks! _She cooks well enough for her own table, to be sure. But,_ she reminded herself, _if she is a friend of Sansa’s, you must be polite._ “Good to meet you. Are you the one who’s been taking care of Edd while he recovers?” She’d seen a woman bustling in and out of his rooms with hot broth when she visited, but at the time she’d been so focused on Edd’s condition that she couldn’t say if it was Dariya or not.

“Oh, yes, Lord Commander Tollett and I are becoming very well acquainted.” The woman beamed. “He’s just darling, isn’t he? So droll!”

Gilly chanced a look at Sansa, nonplussed. Edd was many things, but darling was not one of them.

“So, ah, Gilly,” said Sansa, steering the conversation back to her errand with less grace than usual. “Did you find any letters from my uncle’s wife?”

She wrenched her attention away from the strange third party, who was now making her methodical way through a pile of wolf-shaped iced biscuits. “Er… yes. I’m sorry but it took a long time to find the letters from his wife, they were locked in a secret drawer, not with the rest of his papers.”

“A secret drawer? Damn!” Sansa slapped the table, making them both jump. “I should’ve known, Uncle Benjen used to use that for ravens from Castle Black. If I’d remembered… But you say you got inside? Did you have time to read any?”

“Just one, milady.” She hesitated. Personally she didn’t believe Lady Tully had any thoughts swimming around in her head that weren’t for her husband or son, but she thought the news would be unwelcome. “There was nothing about you or your brothers or sister in it. I think she just misses her husband.”

Sansa covered her obvious disappointment with a sip of tea. “Hmm.” And after a moment, “That was it? Did she mention anyone by name, or title? Was there any reference to the twins?”

“There was something in the letter about a boy named—Hoster? I think that’s their son, but she didn’t mention any twins. And someone called… I don’t know the name, milady.” She spelled out J-O-L-Y-O-N, but Sansa still looked puzzled.

“That name isn’t familiar to me, either, but go on.”

“Oh! I forgot the most important thing.” She felt her ears going red, and she hoped Sansa couldn’t see them under her hair. “She says she is on her way here! Lord Tully asked her to come this way, I think, with a lot of their people—”

But her news was interrupted by the loud ring of china as Dariya disrupted the plate of biscuits, sending a pack of tiny iced wolves skyward. All three ladies were speckled with crumbs. One of the biscuits landed squarely in Sansa’s teacup, but she took no notice. Both ladies began to speak at once.

“Here? She’s coming _here_?” “When, did you say? They could be as near as Castle Cerwyn before we’d get news—” “—her people? Does that mean… Freys?” “Lord Tully _asked_ her to come?”

Since neither was moving to tidy the tabletop, Gilly began gathering biscuits. “I don’t know,” she said, stacking them on the plate, “There wasn’t anything else. She thought Lord Tully would expect her, he’d written and asked her to come.”

“If she’s already had time to send a letter back to him, he must have written to her right after he arrived,” Sansa mused, returning to her default state of calm. “If he wanted her with him, why didn’t they just come together?”

“Wanted to make sure it was safe, maybe?” Dariya suggested. “Here, Gilly, give those here.” Gilly handed over the fractured biscuits, and to her astonishment, Dariya began eating again with just as much relish as before.

“Perhaps,” Sansa mused, fingering the rim of her cup. A moment passed as she sat deep in thought, which neither she nor Dariya disturbed, though Gilly would’ve liked to ask for a biscuit herself.

At last Sansa stirred. “I suppose we’ll find out what she’s up to soon enough, if she’s on her way. In any case, I think this is now a wine conversation. W—would there be any hippocras in the kitchens, Dariya?”

“Not at the moment, my lady, haven’t been able to get anything from the Reach in an age. We do have a very nice smokeberry brown…”

“No matter,” she said, disappointed, but then her eyes lit with a sudden mischief. “But… if you both promise to keep it a secret…” Sansa put a coy finger to her lips, then rose and disappeared through a door at the far end of the room. There were distant sounds of creaking and rustling before she emerged carrying a dusty wine bottle and smiling a cheeky smile.

Dariya yelped in surprise. “Is that… where did you get it?!”

“It’s the last of Lord Baelish’s private stores,” Sansa confided, and her smile grew feral. “After he passed away so prematurely, I helped myself to some of his better vintages. I drank most of them myself in celebration, but… I saved this one to share with friends.”

However nice the wine was, Gilly was sure she would not appreciate it properly; she’d only had wine on her wedding day to Craster, and sometimes sipped from Sam’s mug of mulled wine at the Wall. It was better to have your wits about you among so many men. But Lady Sansa calling her a friend brought its own warm glow. “What are we having?” she asked, feeling shy. She wondered if Dariya would think her stupid for not recognizing it. For a cook she was very intimidating.

“This is a very nice amber from Pentos,” Sansa responded, with an air of a maester educating a pupil. “Sweet, but not overly so, and tastes of stone fruit. Try it—but be careful, it’s much more potent than the wine we usually serve here at Winterfell. I misjudged its strength when Lord Baelish first served it to me, and came off the worse for it.” Irritation clouded her face, and the mischievous air she had adopted upon fetching the wine dissipated as if it had never been. _Now she remembers the reason for our meeting_ , Gilly thought, feeling disappointed. A shame; it was nice to laugh, and not be serious.

It was wonderful to have women friends again, she thought on her way back to the chambers she shared with Sam. Dariya made them both laugh all evening, and Sansa did not seem so frigid with her feet up on a cushion, nibbling a biscuit. They were the first friends she had made for herself since Shireen. Jon and Edd were nice, but they were Sam’s friends, really; and she had not forgotten how Edd used to look at her. For the first time at Winterfell she felt totally at ease, weightless and carefree, even when she stumbled on the stairs.

She found Sam in bed, absorbed in a book. His tired face lit up when she entered. But when she kissed his forehead in greeting, he wrinkled his nose.

“You smell like a winesink,” he complained. “Have they been putting you to work again?” She frowned, not wanting to be reminded of that incident. A few weeks ago a lady of House Ryswell had mistaken her for the wet nurse, and when Gilly protested, the lady sent her to the kitchens to fetch goat’s milk instead. Gilly had gone rather than argue with her. She hadn’t minded—it needed to be done, either way—but Sam had patiently explained to her that she couldn’t be seen doing chores for people when she was to be Lady of Horn Hill. It really was the stupidest thing. Lady Cerwyn did favors for others all the time, and her people loved her for it. It had sparked another of those arguments they were having more often of late; her doing what seemed sensible, and Sam later explaining why that was wrong and bad, and that she should have higher standards for herself.

“I smell like a winesink because I have been drinking wine,” she declared, and flopped onto the bed. That should show him how concerned she was about his “standards”.

“You never drink.” Sam’s round face wrinkled in thought. “The Free Folk haven’t pulled you into one of their contests, have they?”

“No. Lady Sansa hosted me and another girl for the evening, and we had tea and wine and biscuits, and it was very nice,” she sighed. “Have you ever had Pentoshi amber, Sam? It’s much better than what you get at the Wall. It was like drinking a fruit… only you feel tingly afterwards.”

“No, I can’t say I have. Gilly, how many glasses did you drink?” He sounded amused.

Blinking, she tried to count on her fingers. One, two… and then Sansa had opened another bottle… “I don’t remember,” she had to admit, “But I had six wolf biscuits! One for each of the Stark children.” Ghost, and Summer, and… whatever the other wolves were called.

“Ohhh dear,” Sam said, almost to himself. Then, louder; “Did she give you any dinner?”

There had been snacks shortly before she left, nuts and cheese and apples; but not dinner as Sam ate it. Now that he mentioned it, though, she was _starving_. How had she not noticed before?

“No,” she said, struggling to sit back up, “Is there any?” Visions of cod cakes and barley bread and buttered mushrooms and roast boar dripping juices danced in her head. Maybe he would get her some from the Great Hall, which just now seemed _so_ far away.

His only response was a low chuckle. “Well, I’ve kept back a midnight snack. But I think you need it more than me.”

“I _knew_ it!” she crowed, “I knew you were sneaking snacks from the kitchens! Well, I’ll have a word with the cook, I know her now and I’ll tell her to stop giving you treats!” Sam went to bed later than she, and on some mornings, she woke to find mysterious crumbs in the sheets. It was better than finding other ladies’ ribbons, or jewelry, or smallclothes, but crumbs were so itchy.

“I don’t want to hear any criticism of my midnight snacks, not now. You’ll thank me in the morning,” said Sam, producing half a chicken pie wrapped in a cloth. The tender crust flaked away as as she took it from him, and the aroma of smoky bacon still warm from the oven reached her nose. And were those apricots inside?

She inhaled the pie. Sam was not able to grab more than two or three bites from her greedy hands. _And it’s for the better,_ she thought, as she sat licking her fingers afterwards. _He doesn’t need any snacks, if this is what he ate for dinner!_ Now they had stopped traveling, Sam was putting on weight again. If he would just stop snacking… but that was his way, a book in one hand and a cake in the other. She’d have to put a stop to it sometime, or he’d turn into Lord Too-Fat before he was forty. 

But that conversation would have to wait for the morrow, because the pie had made her extremely tired. Too tired to even disrobe, she found, as she struggled to stand. “Sam,” she whined, “help me with my dress.”

She was nearly asleep when Sam slid in next to her in his own sleeping clothes, the fire well stoked and their son tucked in tight. “G’night,” she murmured, half in the land of dreams.

“Good night, Gilly. Ah… why don’t you sleep late tomorrow, and let me wake little Sam?”

She smiled into her pillow. Her Sam was so thoughtful, offering to help like that. He really was the best husband in the Seven Kingdoms, no matter what Lady Tully’s letter said. Even now he was keeping her warm in his embrace, his strong arm wrapped around her waist, and kissing the back of her neck… He shifted closer until something poked her in the back.

Ah. He had something else in mind. “Sam,” she scolded, “not now, I’m tired.”

“Worth a try,” he muttered, and she grinned in spite of herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to the Tobias Menzies Thirst Hour, hosted by yours truly! They don't make him up to look great on GoT, but in that 40's-style getup on Outlander... hnng. Three guesses who gets the first smutty scene in this fic 😂  
> Gilly and Sansa's little charade with the laundry was inspired by an episode of my favorite 90's sitcom. If you can guess the episode, you get... a cookie emoji in next week's authors notes, I guess 🥳  
> Um, in case any of you like my writing and want to read some more... I started posting a very silly AU earlier today, much less serious and plot-heavy than this, to give myself something else to work on when I'm struggling. Don't expect scheduled updates, but I'm having fun with it. Check it out if you want!  
> Next week, updates on what's happening at Deepwood Motte, and Dany makes her first offensive maneuver in the war against the Others.


	17. Missandei III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys strikes back at the army of the dead. Missandei extends an olive branch to the Stark girls. Jon considers new strategies, and Daario is made useful.

It was deep in the belly of the night, and Missandei was thinking of Varys.

Not in a romantic sense, of course; the only eunuch she ever cared to share her bed with was snoozing beside her, now and then letting out a grumble in what sounded like the Summer Tongue. His foot began to spasm as she watched. It was really quite cute; but he needed rest, it had been (another) very long day. She burrowed in closer, sharing her warmth, and began to run her fingernails lightly over his back. That soothed him, as she knew it would. It wasn’t long before he dozed still and peaceful again.

No, her thoughts had turned to Varys for a different reason. He’d come north with herself and Grey Worm and the rest of the queen’s entourage, so she had just assumed he meant to go on to Winterfell with them. Yet he had disappeared before the wedding, on just their second day in White Harbor, outside a mummer’s hall on the same street where Daenerys and Jon had later wed. He’d inclined his head to her regally and slipped inside the hall, disappearing from her sight and Daenerys’ council. At least, she thought it had been Varys; he had been dressed as a washerwoman, but she recognized the jowly face.

She reported on his absence after two more days, fearing assassins, but Daenerys had been unconcerned. “I’ve set him a task, and it may be a while before we see him again,” were her words at the time. “He will serve me better like this than he will wielding a sword he has no idea how to use.” Missandei knew better than to ask after his errand. If she were captured or put to the test, it would be better that she _not_ know. But after weeks at dull, insular Winterfell, she missed his quick wit and sharp tongue. Tyrion was just as intelligent, but he could be so _whiny_ sometimes, and the Northern lords and ladies, while better educated than the smallfolk, showed an appalling lack of curiosity about the world around them.

The moon that night was waxing, almost full, and the sky so bright she could see clouds moving across the heavens like ships across the Narrow Sea. Had Varys boarded such a ship, to the Free Cities or further north? There was a smattering of ports beyond White Harbor, Karhold and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and another one she was forgetting, but if he’d gone on to one of those, he’d be back in Winterfell by now in the party of Lady Karstark or the Night’s Watch. The Free Cities, then… or maybe he’d gone overland somewhere in advance of Daenerys’ army. Barrowton? Torrhen’s Square? Moat Cailin? Which one of those was in ruins, again?

Really, she wanted him here to corral Lord Tully, whose presence was souring their war council. All his advice had been sound and well reasoned, and he endorsed Grey Worm’s proposed military strategies, so Missandei could not truly dislike him; but he mistrusted Jon, hated Tyrion, and had nothing but contempt for the captured Yara. His grumbles and frowns were fast turning Jon and Daenerys’ solar into a very grim place. She suspected her queen was repenting her hasty decision to appoint him to the council, but it could not be denied that he lent the campaign against Cersei some much-needed legitimacy. Many of those northerners who pretended not to hear Tyrion or Davos or even Jorah when they spoke were happy to take the same request from Edmure. He commanded their respect in a way no one else on Daenerys’ council did, save Jon. Could he be trusted? It could not be denied that the man hated Lannisters, but whether his devotion to their queen would survive Cersei’s dethroning remained to be seen. She felt sure Varys could give them an accurate assessment of the man’s character, along with a list of all his secrets, if only he were here. _What are you doing that is more important than protecting the Queen from her enemies?_

Grey Worm snored on beside her. She had begun to sweat, packed into a bed meant for one with his sleep-warmed form, and in her worry and discomfort she did not foresee getting back to sleep herself anytime soon. In stealth she slipped out of bed and cracked the window. A chill breeze whistled in, carrying with it a swirl of frost. Looking north she could see the cozy orange-lit windows of the Guards Hall, still active even at this late hour with men tramping in and out, going to the kitchens or privy or a lady’s bed. As they cavorted, the gargoyles of the First Keep took their own silent watch of the yard below. Beyond those, Drogon and Rhaegal soared over an endless flat plain, stretching north to the mountains and the Wall. Maybe it was the worry for Varys, but she was very glad to be indoors on such a night. She sat at the windowsill watching the sky until she noticed her arms goose pimpling, then shut the window. 

The watch had not calmed her any. Perhaps if she lit a candle or two, she could attend to some of her mountain of correspondence, which had assumed epic proportions in the last fortnight. With Cersei’s newly appointed Lord Estermont now in residence at Storm’s End, many and more storm lords had found their quills put to paper to beg favor of Queen Daenerys instead. Some had not cared for the new Lord Andrew’s association with the unpopular Stannis. Others had merely sniffed the air and smelled that the wind was now blowing from Dragonstone rather than King’s Landing. The raven from Tarth was first to arrive, perhaps not surprising since Lord Selwyn’s daughter was already known to support the Starks; but the long letter from Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall had been a welcome surprise. Lord Selmy had not committed himself, not yet, but it was clear from his earnest message that Daenerys’ connection with his cousin Ser Barristan had impressed him. Even in death, Ser was serving his queen capably.

She was halfway through drafting a reply to Lord Tarth when there was a series of sharp raps at the door. _At this hour?_ Wary, she selected a dressing gown from the closet at random and threw it on over her sleeping shift. At last moment she thought to at least hold the gown closed when she answered. The northerners found the merest suggestion of cleavage very shocking.

It was only Lady Brienne, who probably would have worn the same weary expression if Missandei had answered the door stark naked. “Oh! I was just thinking of you, my lady,” she chirped when Brienne made no move to open the conversation. “I was writing a letter to your father when you knocked.”

An interesting blend of emotions crossed Brienne’s face at that. Was there some obscure rift between father and daughter? She hadn’t meant to offend. “But that’s neither here nor there,” she said hastily. “Does the queen have need of me?”

“Not you, although I think you’d be welcome to come along. She bid me summon Grey Worm to her solar. I think he shares your chambers?” There was no snickering or insinuations about their relationship, for which she was grateful.

“Of course,” she said, mouth automatically forming the words as she glanced wistfully over her shoulder. _He is so peaceful…_ “Right now?”

“Yes, and in his armor, if you please. If you need to change, I don’t mind waiting,” said Brienne.

“Very well.” With the lady knight’s back respectfully turned, she tiptoed back to the bed and rocked Grey Worm’s shoulder until he stirred, blinking and blurry-faced. “Good morrow, my love,” she whispered, caressing his arm. “Although it could hardly be called morning, it’s still dark. I’m afraid Daenerys has summoned you. She wants you to don your armor and join her in the solar.”

“This one?” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “For what reason?”

“I don’t know.” She lowered her voice and switched to Ghiscari. “Lady Brienne came to fetch you, not Jorah or one of the blood riders. It might be Jon’s idea.”

“Mmm… tell the Lady this one will dress as fast as he can. Wait for me.”

Brienne did not turn back to face her until the door was soundly closed. “He is dressing,” she reported, “Won’t be a moment.”

“Don’t you want to put on something more… appropriate, yourself?”

That was rich, coming from a lady in mail. “I’ll be fine in this,” Missandei assured her, “Her solar isn’t far, no one will see me. And I don’t think Jon will be scandalized.”

“I _meant_ ,” intoned Brienne with utter correctness, “that you are wearing one of Lady Catelyn’s dressing gowns. It would hurt the Stark girls to see someone else in their mother’s clothes.”

With a premonition of embarrassment, Missandei examined at the gown she had grabbed from the closet. Pure white and trimmed in fur, with the head of a direwolf embroidered on each shoulder. She could not have chosen a more Stark-like garment if she tried. Warmth flooded her cheeks. “I didn’t— It was an accident, I took it from the closet in the dark— I know these used to be her rooms, it must have been left behind…” She trailed off.

Brienne’s expression softened. “An honest mistake. But maybe you should just put on something from your own trunks, just in case.”

The solar was full to the brim when they arrived. In addition to Jon and Daenerys, she spotted Tyrion and Jorah in attendance, the three Stark siblings seated along the back wall, and Ser Davos nestled into a corner. Everyone appeared to have been summoned as hastily as she and Grey Worm; Brandon was still in his nightshirt. Through the thin fabric she could see how skinny his arms were. The three of them brought the company up to eleven, more than Ned Stark could ever have intended to meet in the close confines of this room. “Could we open a window, please?” she asked, fanning herself with a hand. Sweat was already trickling down her back. “It’s hot as Volantis in here.” Jorah, closest to the window, chuckled and pried it open a few inches.

“If you’ve all made yourselves comfortable,” Daenerys interrupted. “I’ve roused you all from your beds because we have an opportunity to strike back at the Others.”

A frisson of excitement went around the room in the form of fidgets and shifts. Davos raised an eyebrow. Next to her, Grey Worm’s spine straightened just a fraction. His whole body radiated excitement, in contrast to her own worry. _He thinks this is what he is meant for._ No matter how much he loved her, battle had been his whole life before they met. She could never compete with the rush of adrenaline that filled him when he faced a foe on the battlefield or performed heroic deeds for his Queen. She could only hope that he survived to be with her in less restless times.

Sansa sat up straighter. “Right now?” she asked, breaking the silence. “It’s the middle of the night…” They were all thinking it. Missandei was glad someone voiced the question, and even gladder that it didn’t have to be her.

“Bran had a vision,” Jon explained, “Just now.”

“I have no control over when they come to me, or I’d have chosen a more convenient hour,” Bran said with an unnerving smile. “The army of the dead has taken Deepwood Motte, as we feared—”

“Did the Glovers escape?” asked Arya, looking unusually subdued.

He shrugged. “All I see are wights, so they must have. The Others are not with them either, or there would be a storm. The sky over the castle is clear.”

“And if the dead are penned up near the sea, without any protection from the Others,” interrupted Jorah, “We can strike at them while they have nowhere to run.” He turned to face the group of newcomers. “The _khaleesi_ has volunteered Drogon’s services.”

“Drogon’s _services_?” Sansa looked dubious. “I assume you mean fire.”

“I don’t know that dragons do anything else.”

“You are aware that Deepwood Motte is, in fact, _deep in the woods_? Meaning it is surrounded by dry trees and dead leaves?? Your Grace, I know someone raised in Essos like yourself will not have intimate knowledge of our castles, but Jorah certainly does,” sniped Sansa, rising and beginning to pace. She could only go three or four steps in any direction before having to turn. “And you, Jon, you _know_ the castle is made of wood!”

“I am aware.” Jon rubbed at his forehead, looking pained. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but the castle is lost. And if it’s overrun, what’s the harm in destroying it if we take the greater part of the wights with us? If the Glovers escaped, they can rebuild—the castle has taken damage before…”

“From Ironborn, yes. They have only just repaired the damage they suffered at Yara’s hands! Do _you_ want to be the one to tell them it was all for nothing? They fought for us, Jon—”

“—and would be safe now, if they had obeyed my summons!” Rather than join his sister in her pacing, Jon planted his feet on either side of his chair, settling in for a true corker of an argument. “The queen and I summoned them here for their own safety, well in advance of the Others turning their gaze that way. I cannot force them to comply.”

“The Glovers are not still in the castle, sister. Not living, anyway.” Bran looked unconcerned.

If that reassured her at all, she did not show it. “Still,” she said, abruptly changing tack, “Even if the Glovers are beyond our help, there are hundreds of smallfolk who live in the wolfswood. _They_ were not warned. Should we risk their lives because they have the misfortune to be born under the wrong lord?”

“I am not planning to burn down the entire wolfswood for sport.” Missandei sensed that her queen had suppressed an eye-roll. “Deepwood Motte is close to the sea, yes? Then that will be a natural firebreak. Even if the fire spreads, say, from the sea to the Badger River—”

“IF it stops at the river,” Sansa muttered, “Which is little more than a stream during winter—”

“Then only a small fraction of the wolfswood will be lost,” finished Daenerys with poisonous sweetness.

“Fire won’t spread far in this snow,” Jon reminded her.

“Not naturally, maybe, but the wights aren’t natural! They can keep moving while they’re on fire! No stream is going to stop them blundering their way deeper into the wolfswood. Do you propose to contain each wight? Burn them individually?”

The queen and king exchanged a look and Missandei felt a nasty swooping feeling in her stomach. It did not appear that either of them had considered that. “Well,” said Jon, eyes not leaving his queen’s, “We will have to take that chance. Dragon fire burns so hot, they shouldn’t be able to get very far… I still think it’s our best bet to fight back while we can. Who knows when Bran will have another vision? It won’t help us with the Others, we _will_ need to deal with them individually, but they can only do so much without their thralls…” He trailed off.

“I still have not heard how you plan to prevent the smallfolk from being caught in these fires?” The room had grown frosty. She stopped in front of her brother, arms folded over her chest, as if they were two children squabbling over a toy. Missandei wondered which of them was older.

“If the wights passed them by, the smallfolk are already dead!” roared Jon.

His sister was not ready to give up. “Neither of you are the least bit concerned that timber is one of our primary exports? If the wolfswood does burn—”

“It won’t.” Daenerys looked close to grinding her teeth.

“IF it burns,” Sansa continued, “We will just resign ourselves to the diminished income, will we? I’m sure that won’t be a problem! It’s not like it’s winter or anything!” She laughed then, a wild sound, dangerously close to hysteria.

Arya had also heard it. “We have to try _something_ ,” she murmured, locking eyes with her sister. “Warfare is never going to be safe and simple.”

But Sansa wrenched her arm away. “I don’t _believe_ you,” she hissed, addressing the room in general. “This is a fool’s hope. I won’t take part in it.” In three quick strides she was at the door, Brienne at her heels. Wordlessly, Missandei stepped aside to let her pass, Grey Worm’s steady hand at her back.

There was more space in the room after two of their number departed, but somehow it felt more cramped. _Perhaps it is the presence of what we are doing,_ she considered. She was more hopeful about Daenerys’ plan than Sansa, but it did sound risky. As a girl she used to go out to sea with her father, shoving off in their skiff in the early morning hours amidst the cacophony of thousands of seabirds. They collected kelp as the sun rose and were back ashore by midday, ready to bring their harvest to Mother to be dried or made into stew. One morning, though, the sun never rose. Instead there was a gradual reddening of the atmosphere, enough to see by, but never a true dawn. When she asked Father about it, he only said “Forest fires on Sothoryos. See?” and pointed to the horizon, where clouds as dark as ash gathered and blotted out the sun. It was weeks before the sky returned to normal. And Sothoryos had at least been humid…

She shook herself. Back in the solar, Daenerys was trying to bring the meeting to order. Someone had asked a question. “…will bring protection, of course,” she was saying. “Viserion might be anywhere. Since the Night King has demonstrated the usefulness of spears at long distance, we might do the same. Grey Worm is more than proficient with a spear. I would have him accompany me, if he agrees..?” She nodded in their direction.

“This one will protect you, my queen.” Missandei felt her heart sink.

“Then all we need is a guide, for neither of us know the way to Deepwood Motte. Jon, how far is it?”

“Some hundred leagues. At speed, Drogon should be able to carry you there in… five, six hours. That’s assuming the weather holds.”

“It will,” said Bran with ironclad assurance.

“We could be back before next evening then.” Daenerys’ tone was brisk, which meant she had made up her mind and could no longer be swayed. “Jorah, I know you were a frequent guest at Deepwood Motte when you were younger. Do you still remember the way?”

“I do.” A trickle of grit fell from the windowsill as he shifted uneasily on his perch. “I can be prepared at first light.”

“Why not now? Get a head start before the sun is up. Otherwise we’ll be flying home at sunset, in the cold—”

Jorah cleared his throat. “It would be my honor to aid you, _khaleesi_ , but I don’t see so well in the dark anymore.” His eyes flickered from Tyrion to Arya, as if daring either of them to make sport of him. _The poor old bear._ Jorah had fought for his queen, killed for her, crossed half the world to be at her side, but even that strong devotion could not make him young again. For this they needed a Maester’s eyes, keen and honed, or a child’s…

“Lyanna,” Missandei blurted out. “Lyanna knows the way. She visits all the time, you heard her say so.” She kept her eyes trained on the queen, feeling a wall of resistance rising somewhere on the other side of the room. _Jorah will be against this._

But to her surprise, it was Davos who spoke up then. “Lyanna is a _child_ ,” he stressed, in that quiet disappointed way of his. “Have we stooped so low that little girls must fight for us?”

Arya bristled. “I was younger than her when I killed my first man.”

“But out of necessity, I think. Would you put yourself in that situation again, if you could go back?” Davos said softly. He did not wait for her answer. “My queen, someone else in this castle can be your escort. Others have visited Deepwood, adults who are old enough to understand what they are risking. Take one of them, I beg you.”

At that Missandei had to lower her head, shame burning her cheeks. Davos was one of the handful of Jon’s people that she trusted and respected. Having his distress turned upon her was like being scolded by her parents.

“Lyanna is quite young,” the queen mused, “But she will be in no more danger than I, and is lighter than a grown man. Even Drogon may flag after a full day with three humans on his back.” The idea was growing on her. “Yes, I’ll ask Lyanna. But I will _ask_. It will not be a command.”

Tyrion made no secret of his feelings. “Lady Mormont on dragonback,” he said, shaking his head, as he gathered his things to leave. “I can hardly think of anything more frightening.”

She and Grey Worm snuck off to the darkened hall for a private good-bye while Jorah fetched his cousin. With everyone abed and the torches flickering low, the corner felt almost secluded. “I will not try and speak against your going, I know it’s no use,” Missandei started. She fiddled with Grey Worm’s collar to give her anxious hands something to do. “But be very careful. You know our queen can be prone to impulsiveness when she spends time with her dragons—”

“This one knows. Do not fear, my Missandei.” His strong hands closed around her fidgeting ones. “I protect the Queen for a long time. Lyanna of Bear Island will help too. She knows the North.”

“I know she will. And this is hardly the most dangerous thing you have done, is it?” She made a valiant attempt at a smile. _I will not cry. I will not show him a weak face._ Another man might have promised her a swift return, or cracked a joke, but Grey Worm seemed to understand the worth of silence like no one else. His arm looped around her waist and he pulled her close enough to nuzzle his face into her sleep-tousled hair. _Just as well,_ she thought, and blinked to keep her eyes dry. She could say “don’t go” in High Valyrian or Dothraki or Lhazareen, but it would not keep Grey Worm from his Queen’s side, no matter what language she used.

It was a long time before Jorah came back, the sound of his heavy footsteps preceding him. The low murmur of his voice was interspersed with a higher, more excited prattle that sounded like Lyanna. “Those will be your companions,” she whispered. Slowly they let go of each other. Grey Worm rubbed away the droplets at the corners of her eyes—she had not actually cried, but her eyes _were_ a bit moist—and, to her surprise, kissed the tip of her nose. It was the sort of playful gesture she only saw from him in his very best moods. “What…” she asked, blinking.

“This one will be home before nightfall,” he said with mock sternness. “It is only a day’s work. You worry too much over a small thing, what will our Queen think? Rest, answer your letters.” His mouth tensed just the smallest amount, his version of a scowl. “Finish that very long book you borrow from Maester Samwell, that keeps you up at night.”

“Maybe I will,” she answered with a shuddery laugh. “I’ll give you a full account of my day when you get back, shall I?”

“Do not waste it.” He wrapped her in a fast, tight embrace as Jorah and Lyanna appeared at the end of the hall. On impulse she laid a quick peck on his temple, not caring if they saw.

Even in the flattering light of the torch Lyanna looked drained, or maybe just disgusted by the idea of kissing in general. _I suppose I wouldn’t look much better if roused from a dead sleep to get on a dragon’s back._ But she had expected the girl to be excited. She seemed the sort who liked to be in the thick of everything, dangerous or no.

“Is the Queen within?” Jorah had averted his eyes from herself and Grey Worm out of courtesy, but his cousin had no such compunctions.

“She is.” _With her husband,_ she remembered. They would be taking advantage of the privacy, too, unless she missed her guess. “I’ll announce you.”

A great deal of loud throat-clearing and door-squeaking went into her entrance, but even so, she knew she was intruding on a private moment. The queen’s mussed silver braids and reddened mouth told her exactly what the couple had been doing in her absence. Jon’s hand still rested gently on his wife’s belly, a shield for their growing child. His long face was mournful under his tousled curls.

“I’m sorry, your graces,” Missandei said with lowered eyes. “Lord and Lady Mormont.”

“Of course. Show them in, and Grey Worm too.” As she turned, she suspected Daenerys was giving her husband a last sneaky kiss of her own.

For their protection, Grey Worm was given a dozen of the best spears Winterfell’s forge had to offer. When Lyanna assured the queen she could handle a spear of her own, she was gifted a further six, as well as one of Daenerys’ own warm coats to wear over her armor. In the oversized white fur, Lyanna looked very much like her house’s sigil, and even more like the scared fourteen-year-old she was underneath all her bluster. The full moon that peered at them over Winterfell’s walls was reflected in her wide round eyes.

Drogon and Rhaegal’s feeding ground was a league distant through deep snows, a substantial journey even in daylight. The queen, her commander, and Lady Mormont took their leave of the well-wishers just inside the North Gate instead. _Kind of them to spare us the walk,_ she thought, though she couldn’t shake the worry that the three would be completely exposed to enemies on the way. _Surely Brandon would be able to see if the Others were near…_ The thought was less comforting than it should be.

Grey Worm gave her a perfunctory kiss on the knuckles; everything worth communicating had already been taken care of in the dim hall while they waited on Lady Mormont. The girl herself offered them a tremulous smile, a nervous twitch turning the grin to a grimace. In the watery moonlight, with her pale skin, she looked almost a wight herself. Missandei gave her head an involuntary shake to rid herself of the image. _Don’t think of such things._ In the event of catastrophe, Lyanna was more likely to fall from Drogon’s back, anyway, and her broken body would not be able to walk as a wight did—

_STOP IT, Missandei!_ Why had she suggested this in the first place?

Jon seemed to share her misgivings. “I still think I ought to go with you,” he was telling Daenerys, their hands clasped as they spoke. “I do not doubt the strength of your commander’s arm, or his courage, but two defenders are better than one. My brothers and I rode through the wolfswood every day, sometimes, when we were boys, I know it well. Won’t you let me come, and Lady Mormont can stay safe here at Winterfell?”

“We’ve discussed this.” Daenerys looked stricken. “If something happens to me, you must lead. And for that, I need you to stay safe.”

“Then stay here, and let me go!” he argued. There was steel in his voice. “Even if it takes days to march there. I know you can handle yourself, but the baby—”

“The blood of the dragon runs in our son’s veins, just as it does mine.” She touched her husband’s face tenderly. “He’s _excited_ to fight, I can tell.”

“Isn’t it too early to feel the baby kicking?” he asked, dubious.

“Yes, but he must be squirming around in there, because I feel nauseous,” she admitted. A quick smile flashed across Jon’s face. A bark of a laugh. Missandei turned away, feeling again like an intruder on their private moment.

“You should be off.” Jorah’s soothing voice was a welcome interruption. “Elsewise I’ll be able to travel with you. It won’t be long before the sun wakes.”

“Wise as always, my bear. Grey Worm, Lady Mormont—come.”

She, Jon, and Jorah watched them make their gradual way north on foot until darkness blotted out their forms; family, all three of them. She and Grey Worm had not discussed the formalities of their relationship, but she knew in the most essential way that he was her true north, the direction to which her inner compass would always point. For the first time she felt a degree of sympathy with Jon, the wild northerner her queen had chosen for a king. Underneath his studied stillness she could sense the fragile cord that bound him to Daenerys, the same one that stretched through the night between herself and Grey Worm. And Jorah—little Lyanna was his true family. The same blood ran in their veins. He was a childless man of late middle age, she a young orphan girl—they could be so much to each other if they tried.

Thinking of that, it did not seem strange or inappropriate to link arms with both of them. “There go all of our lives,” she said, a lilt to her voice that would allow either of them to think her capricious if they wished. “Drogon had better take care of the three of them.”

“He will.” Jon pressed her arm, and she allowed him to turn her around to head back into the Great Keep. “There’s an understanding there. He knows what Dany needs, what she wants. He will defend her to his dying breath… or fire-breath.”

“How do you know so much about dragons?” Everything he said was true, but she hadn’t seen Jon spending any time with Drogon or Rhaegal, and he didn’t seem the type to gobble up each and every tome about them in his youth, like Tyrion.

“I don’t,” Jon said simply. “But it’s like with Ghost, isn’t it? She is a part of Drogon, and him a part of her.”

A shriek in the distance told her Drogon had caught the sight or smell of his queen and her riders. It sounded… joyful. “That tallies with what I have seen,” she admitted. “But I don’t imagine you hatched Ghost from an egg!”

Jorah, who had been silently brooding, smiled at that. “Wouldn’t that be a story. Father of direwolves?”

“No, no,” Jon demurred, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We only found them. Their mother had been killed, and they were trying to nurse…”

It would be cruel to let him contemplate dead mothers and abandoned babies. “Do all Westerosi houses keep their sigil animals as pets?” she asked, knowing perfectly well that they did not.

Jorah looked at her quizzically. “Do you remember seeing any bears around our party in Astapor or Meereen?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Just you,” she answered, with a cheer that no longer felt forced. “But your little cousin is an equally formidable specimen, I’m afraid. I hope it doesn’t put you out.”

“Not at all. If Lyanna had pledged her sword to the queen in my place, she might sit the Iron Throne already,” he laughed. With a last nod and wave, he left her on Jon’s arm and trudged away towards the Bell Tower.

“To answer your question,” Jon said as soon as Jorah was out of earshot, “Some of the families of the Seven Kingdoms have a connection with their sigils, but for most, it is only history or convenience. Many sigils are not even animals. Our cousin Alys, for example, takes a sun for her sigil.”

“Hard to harness the sun and keep it as a pet. Wouldn’t it be nice if she could, though? We could have warmth and light whenever we wanted… drive away the Others for good…”

“I’ll speak to her about that, check she’s not hiding any secret powers.” They shared a sensible chuckle before Jon went serious again. “Missandei, you’ve spent more time around the dragons than I…”

“I have,” she conceded. “They were still small enough to ride on the queen’s shoulders when we met.” It seemed impossible that was five years ago.

“Has Rhaegal ever, I don’t know… shown an affinity for someone else? The dragon kings of Westeros have only ever bonded with one dragon at at time. I wondered…”

_If Rhaegal could be mine,_ she finished silently. Any lingering sympathy for Jon vanished. “You are not descended from the Valyrians, unless I am very much misinformed.”

“You mistake me, Missandei, I was not thinking of myself. Daenerys is the last of her family, but there are others with Targaryen blood here at Winterfell.”

“There are??” _In the crypts, maybe…_

“I wouldn’t mention it to anyone else, but my wife trusts you above all others, so…” Jon halted them outside the Great Keep, staring up into the slowly lightening sky. “Gendry is one-eighth Targaryen,” he muttered to her, keeping his voice as low as possible. “And Brienne one-sixteenth.”

The lady knight? The _blacksmith_?! Brienne she could almost believe, with her light hair and stunning eyes, but Gendry just looked like a smallfolk. “I— are you sure? Does she _know_??”

“About Gendry, I think so. He is Robert’s natural son, she can draw her own conclusions from that. Brienne might be a surprise.” He flexed his hand. “There could be others out there. The Targaryens married into other families, and not so long ago. I wondered… if she has other family, someone she could trust with Rhaegal, that would be a boon to our forces. She can’t control him the way she does Drogon.”

He did not look like a man who was lying, she thought, studying Jon, but one could not always tell. To tell the truth she had not thought of what to do with Rhaegal. Perhaps the queen hoped her child would mount the green dragon one day. In any case, she did not think Daenerys would ever trust anyone else enough to give one of her children away. “Rhaegal is friendly to those he grew up with,” she answered finally, doing her best to commit herself to nothing. “He does not snap at myself or Jorah, or her _khalasar_. But neither does he take commands from us.” The conversation was becoming awkward for the both of them. _Why did I open my mouth,_ she thought again.

“Augh, really? I had hoped…” _What DID you hope?_ she wondered. “When I… At Castle Black, Edd was able to wrangle Ghost for me, even though he’s not a Stark. Ghost knew he was a friend. Pack, if you will. If only… but a dragon is not a direwolf.” He rubbed at his tired eyes. “I don’t know what I’m saying, Missandei. I haven’t slept.”

“Nor have I.” The thoughts of Varys that had kept her awake seemed a hundred years ago. _Wouldn’t he be interested to hear this conversation._ “Youl should try and rest. The north will need you, if anything delays our queen.”

“Would that I could. No, I expect I’ll spend the day worrying.” _What else is new?_

The pettiness instantly made her feel chagrined. He was worried for his wife and unborn child, it was only natural. Her own nerves were frayed with concern for Grey Worm. “Work will make you feel better,” she suggested gently. “It is always so for me.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” They were disturbed by a flapping sound overhead; Drogon? The nearness of his wife seemed to lend Jon strength. “Might be things will look better tonight. What will you occupy yourself with?”

“Cleaning.”

Upon inspection, Lady Catelyn had left quite a few things behind. The weak dawn light illuminated the closet just enough to identify which garments were her own—black, mostly, and severely cut—and which were the Stark woman’s understated cold-weather things. Catelyn must also have been wider through the hip, she observed, having borne five children. It would be years before Sansa or Arya would fill out her gowns. Behind the winter gear, though, was a treasure trove of satiny, blousy gowns in bright red and sea blue, lace-trimmed shawls, fine slippers and headdresses and underthings well-constructed but twenty years out of style. Most of them would be embarrassing to wear about the castle now, but some of the accessories could be saved. In particular there was a pair of thigh-high boots that would look very fetching on her long-legged daughter.

Behind the dated frocks there was yet more fabric, piles of gold and yellow silk and samite, tassels, belts, lengths of black fringe, coils of piping. A few sections of something, probably a dress, had been pieced out, then refolded and put away. _All of this is newer than the red and blue gowns, why has it been pushed to the back of the closet?_ Each layer had no association with the one before it; practical northern things, girlish frippery, and nebulous golden gowns that had never come to fruition. She found herself wondering what sort of a woman Lady Stark had been.

Of the two Stark girls, Arya seemed more likely to receive a present without arguing, so she made a pile of a few gowns and a nice cloak and carried it down a flight of stairs when the sun was well risen. She was not surprised to find the girl awake and alert—and dressed in her traditional leathers. “Good morrow,” she said politely, as Arya stared her down. “I was going through my closet and found a few things I thought might belong to you. May I bring them in?”

Either Arya was harder up for warm things than she thought, or she recognized the cloak, because she ushered Missandei in without an interrogation. “I don’t wear dresses,” she said baldly, crossing her arms.

“So I’ve seen.” _Why are the Starks so quarrelsome??_ “But they’re your mother’s. I thought you might want them for…” she swallowed. “Sentimental reasons?”

“I might. I might not.” But her eyes lit upon the second garment on the pile, a mossy green skirt.

“Well, you can do with them what you like. Just passing them on.” Missandei made like she was looking around Arya’s chamber, giving her a moment to examine the pile more closely. It was considerably less ornate than her own room, less comfortable than Daenerys and Jon’s solar. The only nod to Arya’s personality were the weapons and armor scattered about; otherwise, it could’ve been a guest room in any castle in all the world. Even her bedside table was empty but for a plate covered in crumbs and a thick tome with a creased spine. The book caught her eye—had she seen it in the library?

She reached for the book, turning it to the side to read the spine— _Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall among Savages, Raiders, and Woods-witches._ Written by some Maester. “I didn’t know you were a book lover,” she noted. “If you’re interested in raiders, I have an account written by a Norvoshi pirate—”

“I’d rather do things than read about them,” said Arya with contempt. _So much for being friendly._ “Bran told me to read it. Maybe he has a reason, but he’s not said what it is.”

Even omnipotent beings liked to annoy their sisters. “Maybe he’s teasing you,” she suggested. “Is there anything about fierce warrior ladies in there?”

“Some.” Arya frowned, shoving her hands into a nice pair of fur-lined gloves. “I thought he might have suggested it because there’s quite a bit about wargs—you know, skinchangers. I used to be able to do that with my wolf Nymeria. But she’s in the Riverlands.”

“Jon and I were just talking about that!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you had a direwolf too.”

“Had.” The fine stitching on the gloves strained against Arya’s tugging. “But sometimes I still get wolf dreams.” She peeled the gloves off. “Too big.”

Daenerys got dragon dreams, sometimes. _Wouldn’t it be nice to have butterfly dreams?_ But since the Starks seemed determined to talk about skinchanging today… “You haven’t ever skinchanged another animal, have you?”

“Well… once or twice, but not like with Nymeria.” There was a suggestion of mischief, far back behind Arya’s eyes. “Once I skinchanged a cat in King’s Landing. I was eleven, twelve. I didn’t know what I was doing at all, but I wanted _so badly_ to catch it.” She glanced at the book. “This Maester Wyllis says cats are hard, but I didn’t think so. It was harder than Nymeria, of course, but no worse than making friends with someone who doesn’t like you.”

“And that’s not hard _at all_.” She smiled ruefully.

For the first time Arya appeared to actually see her, rather than marking her as a potential obstacle. “Kittens might be easier,” she mused. “This was an old cat, a black tom… set in his ways. He must’ve been older than I was. I wonder if he’s still alive—”

Her eyes unfocused and for a fearful second Missandei thought she was going into one of her brother’s strange trances. “Arya?” she asked, unsure of what she should do it if it were a true fit rather than a Stark oddity. “Are you quite well?”

“Oh yes,” she said absently, touching her ear. “I’m… fine… Thinking. Missandei, I need to go, could you just leave those things on my bed? I’ll sort through them later, see if Sansa wants anything. Right now I need to be alone.”

“I’ve made a second pile for your sister.” _Are they all mad??_ she wondered. _Why is it said the Targaryens are mad, but the Starks merely eccentric?_ She had never seen her queen go into a trance like Bran’s, or get as distracted as Arya was right now.

“Yes, my sister,” she whispered, still with that dreamy look on her face. “Go see her.”

“I believe I will.” But it didn’t feel proper to leave her after she’d come over so odd. “Are you _sure_ you’re all right?”

That snapped Arya back to attention. “Never better. Are _you_ quite well?”

_Hmmph._ “Only being polite, Lady Stark. Courtesies in the North are quite… different than what I’m used to.”

Arya did not catch her meaning. “Yes, I expect they are,” she agreed. “Do you want these? They’re too big for me, and your fingers are longer.” She held out the pair of Lady Catelyn’s gloves, supple grey leather with a furry trim.

An inviting prospect. Her own lined gloves were becoming grubby with everyday wear, and she did like the idea of wearing something that wasn’t black. _Grey for Grey Worm,_ she thought, and that decided her. “Sansa won’t be upset if she sees me wearing these?”

“They’re very plain, she won’t recognize them. Besides, everything makes her upset.”

It was an irritable kind of day after that. She went to the kitchens and sweet-talked the cook into giving her a plate of fruit and cheese, then wandered over to the library thinking to share a snack and some gossip with Maester Samwell. He was out, and the prickly lady he was betrothed to didn’t seem pleased to find another woman asking after him. “Sam is busy all day,” she said, stubborn as a mule, when Missandei asked when he was coming back. She decided not to press her luck. _A stroll in the godswood, then, will be a pleasant diversion._ But Lord Umber was making a racket in there, leaping about and attacking bare tree branches with a wooden sword.

There seemed to be nowhere in the godforsaken castle she could get a moment’s peace. She thought of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, ominously hushed even at its busiest, with something like fondness. _So much space to fill, so few to fill it._ She wondered how many of the Northerners would go and live in safety there if offered the choice. Some might. It would mean fewer mouths to feed, if there were truly years of winter coming. _Actually, that might not be a terrible idea._ She halted momentarily next to a sentinel tree, Lord Umber’s cries echoing off the trunks around her, and munched on a slice of pear as she considered it. Not the farmers, maybe, but skilled laborers and craftsmen could make a living anywhere. There would soon be call for exotic goods in Slaver’s Bay again, if it was flourishing as much as they were being told. Maybe her harebrained idea of growing weirwood trees along the Skahazadhan would even come to fruition. That might be worth a letter to Daario…

Wolkan’s turret was a mess, to put it kindly. Completely overrun by ravens. Some of the naughty birds had taken to roosting in the stairwell, seeking warmth, and when left unmolested, moved to Wolkan’s own chambers. The man was too kind-hearted to put them out. “I don’t really mind the chattering,” he protested when Missandei urged him to lock them out at once. “But the droppings are a plague and a nuisance. Getting on all my papers… I’ve had to ask Brandon to re-write one of his already, because one of the ravens decided it made a better dropcloth than a letter.”

“I hope that didn’t cause you any trouble. Lords can be demanding.”

“ _Trouble_ ,” croaked one of the ravens, startling her. “ _Trouble, trouble._ ”

“Not at all, Lord Brandon was waiting with a fresh copy when I went to beg his pardon. I think it amused him.” Another raven perched on the maester’s shoulder, staring at her with one beady black eye. “Now. Do you have something to post, my dear?”

“As it happens, I do. This needs to go to Meereen.” She waved the brief missive she’d composed for Daario. “I think you send it to the maester at White Harbor and then it goes by ship, yes?”

“Precisely,” said Maester Wolkan. “Is this on the queen’s business?”

“Well… yes and no,” she admitted. “Perhaps it is a fool’s errand. I hesitate about whether to send it at all, but if it saves even a handful of people, I should try, right? But it’s such a small thing to travel so far. Ships that brave the Narrow Sea in this season might reach their destination months late, or not at all.”

“I am intrigued.” Wolkan tickled the raven, which nipped him. “Ouch! You frightful bird. See what they do to me, Missy.” He heaved a great sigh and shooed the raven away. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

_Where to begin?_ She sighed. “Daenerys left her lieutenant Daario Naharis in charge in Meereen when she sailed for Dragonstone. He is to hold the city until such time as they elect their own rulers—though if I know Daario, he will not allow that to happen.” That had been one of her queen’s more controversial notions, and she’d spoken against it at the time, but contrary to all expection Daario did appear to be holding the city together. Just _how_ he was doing that, she couldn’t speculate. “Many Meereenese died in the taking of the city, and then the siege, if they weren’t murdered by the Sons of the Harpy.”

“The Sons..?”

“It’s not important.” She brushed a few feathers and bits of corn from a chair and sat. “The city needs new blood to make it strong again, people who have never owned slaves or wanted to. I thought, if there are Northerners who do not want to fight…”

Wolkan was troubled. “That’s quite a transition. Some of these people have never gone more than ten leagues from their homes.”

“We wouldn’t force them. Just make the offer… Young men often go abroad to seek their fortunes. At least that is the way of it in Essos. I was only a girl when I was enslaved, had never left Naath, but now I am a Queen’s trusted advisor.” She allowed herself a small bit of triumph. “You left your own home too, I think. You do not seem like a Northman.”

Wolkan’s moustache twitched. “You’ve noticed how I curse even the lightest snowfall, I take it? I confess, I am not a Northman born. Until just a few years ago I dwelled at the Citadel in Oldtown, and before that, along the Blue Fork. It snows there quite a lot, but the cold is nothing like what you get in the North. I was utterly unprepared.”

“Me too, no matter how much Jorah tried to describe it to me.” She had thought cold was shivering in a sleeveless dress on a breezy night. Never had she imagined the steady knife-edge of the wind blowing down from the north, the misty breaths you could see almost every time you stepped out of doors here, the way the inside of your nose would freeze and prickle when you wiggled it. It was a cold that got in your bones and turned you to ice from the inside out. _And Grey Worm is out in that cold right now, with no protection from the wind._ She hoped Drogon was giving the three of them a puff of flame now and then.

Wolkan was shaking his head. “I have to say, my dear, I don’t see it happening. But I will post the letter nonetheless. More and stranger things have happened these past few years than I ever could have imagined.”

When he left the room to mount the steps to the rookery, several of the ravens followed him. In their absence Missandei began to tidy. She was pleased to discover that the Maester had a ruthless filing system and orderly habits underneath the bird droppings and feather piles. She had never been able to understand those men and women for whom chaos was a default state of being. The disarray must be driving him crazy. _He could put this room back together in very little time, really,_ she thought. _Two more hands would make it go faster._ Missandei put a pot of water on to boil.

A steaming mug of lacewing tea was waiting for Maester Wolkan when he completed his errand. His eyes twinkled as he smelled the woodsy frangrance. “You are a _gem_ ,” he enthused. “I begin to see why the Queen keeps you so close. And did you clean up in here while I was gone?”

“The mess was bothering me too much to keep still,” she confessed. “I was already restless. I thought it would calm me to do something useful.” And it had. Her soul felt calmer than it had all day. “But don’t get used to it. You _need_ to shut out those birds, Maester.”

“Oh, I know that very well. But I do enjoy the company.” He gulped down a mouthful of tea. “Jon does not ask for my counsel very often, I’m afraid,” he said sadly. “Prefers to do everything himself. And it’s not often anyone else wants to spend time with an old man. My cousin comes to visit for an hour or two, when she can, but her work in the kitchens keeps her so busy…” Another mouthful of tea. “Did you sweeten this?”

“There’s a slice of apple at the bottom. Makes it less bitter.”

“Ingenious,” he murmured, and drained his cup. “Well, I’d best finish cleaning. ‘Once begun, don’t leave undone,’ as my mother used to say, bless her soul.”

“Would you like help?” Wolkan was better company than Catelyn’s musty gowns, and his little speech had made her sympathetic. No one should be made to feel useless.

They worked steadily through the afternoon, clearing out the ravens’ detritus and getting rid of anything that had been soiled. What could not be cleaned was sent off to the laundry with Sorrel. Then they reshelved all the books that were sitting out. At last the room was neat and sparkling clean, and since he could find no further occupation for Missandei, he showed her how to use the Myrish far-eye that the previous Maester had left behind. “This here controls the sight,” he advised, tapping the bronze section at the far end of the tube. “I was observing the movements of the heavens before dinner last night. You’ll need to adjust it if you want to take a look at anything closer to home.”

Missandei gave the end of the tube a twist and swung the whole apparatus down to observe the yard. She was surprised to find it had grown dark out while she and Wolkan were toiling in his tower. Smoke was coming out the kitchens—dinner soon—and the guards posted at North Gate were changing shifts. _Grey Worm and Daenerys will be due back any minute now._ Maybe she’d see them before anyone else! With that thought in mind, she swept her gaze over the castle walls, north to the dragon’s feeding grounds. Drogon was not there, but in the brilliant moonlight she thought she could just make out three human figures on foot. Her heart leapt. “They’re back!” she yelped, and Wolkan jumped a mile. “The queen and Grey Worm and Lady Mormont. They’re heading this way.”

“Pray let me see,” he murmured, and she stepped aside to let him have a peek. He turned the end of the tube to bring them better into focus. “Yes, that will be them. At least, it’s a tall man and two short ladies. And they’re all walking under their own power. I think that is the best we could have hoped for, yes?”

Wolkan dismissed her with a friendly reminder that he would be available if any of them needed patching-up. Missandei raced down the tower steps and dashed to the North Gate. The guards had already spotted the travelers when she arrived. “Raise the gate!” one shouted, and there came a squeal of hard-frozen iron wrenching itself out of the mud. The sound drew the attention of others, and the gathering crowd tempted still more people out of the warm Great Hall to welcome the party home.

As soon as the three of them cleared the gate, Lyanna tore through the crowd and ran to the Bell Tower without a word to anyone, her child’s face screwed up with some powerful emotion. She almost knocked over a tired guardsman, slinking off to his chambers for a nice long sleep, as she ran. _What…_ Her worries that day had been black, but the glimpse of them through the Myrish lense had reassured her. They were alive and home and whole, what could be so wrong to make Lyanna react that strongly? _Not… Drogon?_ Filled with foreboding, she searched for clues in the faces of her lover and her queen.

Daenerys looked furious. “I’ll meet with my council immediately,” she snapped before she even allowed Jon to hug her. “Missandei, Grey Worm, gather everyone and bring them to the solar.” One brief, worried glance at her husband and she set off at a clip, the smallfolk muttering darkly in her wake. 

Missandei broke into a jog to keep up. “What happened? Did you find the wights? Is Drogon well?” she asked breathlessly when she reached Daenerys’ side.

“Drogon is better off than any of us, he’s just tired.” The queen looked tired too. Two bright spots of pink burned on her cheeks, a gift from the wind, but weariness had leached her face of any other color. “He did us a great service today. Many wights were destroyed. And Jon was right, the fire did not spread very far. Only a small portion of the wolfswood burned.”

“Then why is Lyanna so upset?” she pressed. _And why are you?_ she didn’t ask. Daenerys was in full angry stride now. Even Jon was struggling to keep up.

Grey Worm answered for her, looking as troubled as she had ever seen him. “Some of the wights fled inside Deepwood to go away from Drogon. The castle was burning within minutes. And…” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Lady Glover was still inside. Lyanna saw her.”

There was a gasp of horror behind her, and she did not have to turn around to know that Jon’s face had gone ghostly white. “As a wight. Please tell me she was a wight.”

Grey Worm shook his head sadly. “This one does not think so. We tried to rescue her, but Drogon could not land safely. The flames reached her before we could. She did not suffer long.” A pause. “That was the only spear this one had to use today.”

Heedless of whoever was watching, Missandei took his hand—a small thing, but meaningful to him. It was cool and clammy. “Grey,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

A stunned Jon had wrapped his queen in a hug. Only then, with her face hidden against his chest, did she show her sorrow. “Bran promised they were gone,” she moaned, her voice choked with rage. “Elsewise we would’ve found another way. I didn’t _know_ , how could I have known??” Daenerys did not weep, but the sound of Drogon’s roars filled the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the long wait for this chapter! My glasses broke last Saturday morning, and I don't have a backup pair, so most of the weekend was spent at the eye doctor's or Halloween festivities. Didn't leave much time for writing or editing, unfortunately, but I'm back with a new pair of specs :)  
> Now I know we all hate the "Targaryen madness" nonsense from Season 8, and I won't be going in that direction in this fic, but I did want to explore the reasonable consequences of using dragons as instruments of war. Thus far we've only seen Drogon burning Daenerys' sworn enemies, or enemy combatants, and one little girl in Meereen (that Dany did not order.) As the dragons become wilder and more difficult to control, I think we would see more "accidents" like that.   
> So, who's going to tame Rhaegal? Any guesses? 😬


	18. Alyn III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyn keeps the peace in King's Landing on the night of Cersei's wedding.

Living in King’s Landing was like being trapped in a sack. A spacious and expensive sack, to be sure, but that only made the bad smell and humidity within more vexing. The sack held all kinds—a piece of smoked fish from the Riverlands, an acorn from the Reach, fragments of shell and sand from Dorne, and of late, bits of driftwood from the Iron Islands. Each a fine thing on its own, but tumble the sack about and you’d find your lunch covered in oddments and your spare tunic ripped open by some sharp corner. But what else could you do? One needed _something_ to hold their meager possessions together.

Today someone must have thrown a handful of coins into the sack, for everywhere Alyn turned there was wine flowing, maidens signing songs, and septons on horseback throwing greenery and small denominations of coin to those they passed. And the noise, the _noise_. The peal of bells rang in the air with each turn of the hour, going on and on without ceasing until Alyn’s head was vibrating with it. He’d developed a minor headache by noon, a thundering one by three o’clock, and all signs pointed to debilitating pain before nightfall. For in two hours’ time Queen Cersei would wed the Lord Reaper of Pyke, an event sure to lead to as much murder and mayhem as dancing and singing.

And with that came the assignment of several dozen Gold Cloaks to patrol the alleys, potshops, and winesinks around the Red Keep. He was partnered for the day with Olyn, the third son of a locksmith from Stoney Sept. _Alyn and Olyn_ , he fumed as they crossed Fishmonger’s Square side-by-side. It amused Commander Sand to pretend the two of them were brothers. In reality, Olyn was short, dark, and pot-bellied where Alyn was gangly and gingery, and towered over him by a head; but Commander Sand assumed since they were both from the Riverlands they were practically kin. The first time he’d said as much, Alyn asked him if, by that same logic, he was “practically kin” to Dornish sand dogs; the result was a sore jaw, and an even sorer Kitty after he was docked a week’s wages.

Their task for the morning was to contain the smallfolk’s revelries to back alleys, away from the highborn Westermen and Crownlanders who had come to the capital to mingle and carouse and, when the bleak light of morning stole over the city, swear fealty to newly made King Euron. Since the festivities had been in full swing since before the lunch hour, Alyn suspected many and more did not want to remember the wedding or the oath. Later in the afternoon, the two of them would take a shift outside the Queen’s Ballroom in the Red Keep, where the wedding feast and revelries would go on until dawn.

“Say,” said Olyn, “In another hour or so, this lot’ll be off to the ruins of the Sept of Baelor to watch the wedding. Fancy slipping off to the Street of Silk?” His round rat’s eyes gleamed with mischief. Olyn was always up for a visit to the Street of Silk, in uniform or out of it. To hear him tell it, King’s Landing whores were the next thing to goddesses compared to the offerings at the Peach, his own local brothel. “They’ll all be dressed up like the Queen today, in bridal whites and interesting underthings. Probably with that short hair, too.”

“No,” muttered Alyn, “I’ve got a wife.” _And she’s worth ten of your whores,_ he wanted to add, but Olyn was friendlier to him than most of the City Watch. “And I don’t like that short hair.”

“I’ve got a wife, too. What’s your point?” laughed Olyn. “But maybe you’re right, and I should go home to her after. Might be this wedding will put a spring in her step. It’s been long enough since she’s spared me any affection. Your sweet Kitty still keeping you honest?”

“Yes,” answered Alyn loyally. He never wanted to leave her side, to tell the truth. Too often Kitty had to share the Queen’s bed, but whenever it was Lady Stonetree’s turn for that duty they spent half the night in marital bliss and the other half talking and giggling between the sheets. Sex was a wonder, a revelation, possibly the best thing that had ever been invented, and thoughts of his wife’s lovely body and shy caresses were foremost in his mind at all times.

“That will wear off,” said Olyn with the air of one imparting great wisdom. “Before long there’ll be children, and her face and belly and teats will sag, and you’ll have nothing to welcome you home but complaints.”

 _Fat chance of that_ , he thought, but didn’t want to argue. Talk—and thought—made his head hurt worse.

Instead of the Street of Silk, he and Olyn veered towards the unassuming Rosby road. He still frequented the inn where he’d spent his wedding night on his evenings off, and tonight he’d promised Essie they’d check in, help keep the common area safe. With hordes of Ironborn come to the capital, one could never be too cautious. They found the Rosby road teeming with walkers, carriages, and people of all description on horseback, crammed shoulder to shoulder as they made their way towards the Iron Gate and onto the fields beyond. A light drizzle had muddied the laneway and slowed their progress. Alyn clenched his jaw. _Why are all the bloody smallfolk out on the road this early? Don’t they have work to do?_ He had no time for this if they were going to check on Essie’s place and still make it back to the old Sept before the wedding. He poked the man in front of him with his sword hilt, hoping to hurry him along, but the man just shot him a dull, dirty look and, if possible, dragged himself along even more slowly.

Such cheek could not go unremarked. “Are you going to move along or do we have to make you?” he taunted. A smarter man would’ve cleared the way for gold cloaks immediately, but this one had the look of Alyn’s uncle Merrett about him; that is to say, dim-witted.

“Can’t move along if there’s people in front of me.” The man dismissed him without even making eye contact, filling him with righteous anger. _Him!_ A sworn member of the City Watch! Whether he was sixteen or sixty didn’t matter. Besides, Olyn was with him, unquestionably a man grown.

“That wasn’t smart,” said his partner, rattling his own sword in its scabbard. “You ought to show a little more respect for gold cloaks. Or who knows what might happen? Where are you bound this afternoon? And don’t lie to me.”

The man turned to face them at last, the fear and respect he’d withheld from Alyn now kindling in his eyes. “Taking my family outside the gates tonight, ser,” he managed. “I’ve two maiden daughters. I won’t have them sleep inside the city while the iron devils are about.”

“One of those ‘iron devils’ will be your new king.” Olyn fingered his sword hilt. “Maybe you meant to say, ‘I’m taking my daughters to shelter, in case our good king’s men get too boisterous?’’”

“Yes, ser, that’s exactly what I meant to say.” Their little chat with the man was causing on obstruction. People swarmed around them, most having the sense to avoid eye contact with him and his partner, but further back the crowd was hissing and grumbling. Traffic was backing up. Around them, other men were starting to mutter and send them dark looks. _If there’s trouble, there aren’t any other gold cloaks around for blocks._ The thought made him uneasy. Neither of them could be called physically imposing, but once Olyn got in a mood, he tended to forget that. Why had he decided to start in on the man, anyway? His only crime was walking too slow. Maybe he was simply lame—Alyn hadn’t looked. _If that’s the truth I’m going to feel like an ass._

“C’mon, the man’s apologized for his folly. We don’t have time to fool about with likes of him,” he said with one eye on the crowd behind them. _Did that sound too much like pleading?_ “I want an ale.”

“I—I’d be pleased to buy you both an ale, ser,” the man cowering before them stuttered. “If it will smooth this over.”

His partner was well pleased at the offer. “See, now that wasn’t so hard, was it? Ale for two of the city’s finest, on the Queen’s wedding day. Consider yourself lucky we’re not in the mood to trouble you.” _We aren’t?_ “I’ll take that coin now, if you please.”

The man reached one jittery hand into the bag at his waist and pulled out two half-groats. “One for each of you, sers,” he said with an attempt at a smile. He quaked the way Kingslayer did just before he bolted.

“Half-groats?” Olyn pulled a face. “I think we’re each worth a groat, don’t you?”

“Olyn,” he started, feeling bad; but the man obediently produced two more half-groats. When his partner left two of them in the man’s palm, Alyn took his portion, shuddering to touch the man’s hand. _This feels rotten,_ he thought, but how could he return it without losing face?

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Olyn leered. “Think of it as a tax on maidenheads. And be careful with those daughters, there’s more than Ironborn who might think to steal a juicy morsel for himself tonight.”

Alyn almost did not want to face Essie after that, but they had reached the door of the inn, so they went inside, each a groat richer for their behavior. She and her husband Cliff were working flat out to serve their customers, clear tables, and chat with their regular patrons; but she still found time to flash him a motherly smile as they entered.

He could sense Olyn, arrogance bolstered by the encounter outside, wanting to grandstand still further, so he took the liberty of pulling out two spare chairs he knew Essie kept behind the bar to avoid any confrontations over seats. “Might be better to sit by the door, in case we need to make a hasty exit,” he suggested. _And for love of the Seven, please don’t argue._

He didn’t. The thick amber ale Essie brought them, _gratis_ , demanded his full attention. Inwardly Alyn breathed a sigh of relief. Olyn was so much older, it was hard to convince him otherwise if he took a certain notion. He didn’t mind missing the wedding, really, but if his partner got up to mischief Essie would be disappointed, and maybe not suffer him to come around anymore. That would be a hardship. He couldn’t call anyone in King’s Landing a friend except her and Cliff.

Olyn drained his cup in three long gulps. _He’d savor that longer if he weren’t planning to get blind drunk_ , he thought with a growing sense of discomfort. Olyn wasn’t a sappy, jovial drunk like his brother Donnel. Excess of ale turned him mean. Even if he managed to prevent his partner from venting his anger on the smallfolk, Olyn’s wife would give him a scolding fit to burn the ears off his head when he returned her slumping, spewing husband to her at the end of the night. As if it was _his_ fault her husband was a lush! Might be he could stave off the inevitable if he could just get some food into him… there’d be no time for drinks during their shift outside the Queen’s Ballroom. He raised his hand, grabbing Cliff’s attention, and made eating motions until the man winked and hustled off to the kitchen. “Join me in a leg of capon, to celebrate the Queen’s union,” he proposed, raising his still-full mug in a toast. Suspicious, his partner nevertheless complied, though his mug was empty.

Soon they were noshing on wilted greens cooked with bacon and vinegar, barley bread, and tiny clay bowls of pumpkin soup in addition to the capon; plain fare, but prepared with as much love and care as the royal feast. They ate steadily, dunking chunks of bread into the steaming orange stew and tearing at the crispy capon, slaking their thirst with the amber ale every third or fourth bite. _This alone was worth coming to King’s Landing. Even Cook can’t compete with Essie._

Talk inevitably turned to the royal wedding. Most of the patrons present in the common room were of the opinion that Cersei could’ve done better for herself. Garth Hightower would’ve brought her wealth and the Reach; Sebaston Farman, ships; Yoren Yronwood, Dornish support and beautiful blond heirs (assuming the Queen was still young enough to breed.) Sure, she was past her prime, but so were many other women, and they did not come with crowns and riches. It beggared belief that she had settled for a half-crazed pirate.

“I heard the Lord Reaper ensnared her with magic from Essos,” one eager man shared with his companions as Alyn and Olyn sopped up the last of their soup. “Blood sacrifice and arcane rites and the like. And when she lays with him, the ritual will be sealed and we’ll all be doomed.” He sounded far too invested in the grisly prospect.

“Are you dim?” his companion snorted. “She’s marrying him because she likes his cock, and that’s the long and short of it.” Sniggers all around the table. “Queen or no, she wouldn’t be the first woman to be fooled by a handsome face and a big dick.”

“My niece works in the Red Keep as a scullery maid, and she reckons the queen is already with child,” said a third woman, nodding sagely. “She’s heard from other staff that the queen can’t keep her breakfast down, and has had some of her gowns let out.”

Alyn stopped chewing, for his wife reckoned much the same thing. She’d thought Cersei was pregnant from the moment she’d started duty in the Red Keep. He hadn’t taken her seriously, but if others had heard the same rumors…

“That’s reason enough to marry Lord Euron,” grumbled the first man, sounding disappointed that something as mundane as an early pregnancy was afoot. “She’s already borne three bastards, to hear Stannis tell it. Now she’s queen in her own right she won’t want to chance another.”

At some point during the conversation, the second man, who’d jeered that Cersei was marrying Euron for his looks and physique, had marked their attention. Now he waved them over. “Room for more, especially such esteemed men as yourself,” he offered. Alyn didn’t like his look. _He doesn’t hold us in any esteem, he just wants more gossip from inside the Red Keep._ But his partner’s eyes were already glinting greedily. Without a word to Alyn he hoisted himself out of his corner seat and made his way over to the table. He had no choice but to follow.

Their drinking companions, he learned, were Ryam and Owen, two hedge knights up from Dunstonbury to fight in the wedding tourney, and Retha, a mummer from the same village. All three were hoping to make enough coin this week to last them a few months at home. Alyn didn’t remember much of his geography lessons from his old Maester, but he thought Dunstonbury was far to the south in the Dornish Marches, leagues and leagues away from the capital. The journey would’ve taken weeks. _Just to joust once or twice or perform in a farce?_

“Isn’t the Reach supposed to be wealthy?” he asked. “Why did you come all the way here to make a little extra?”

Ryam fixed him with a look of disgust. “The _lords and ladies_ are wealthy, maybe,” he said flatly. “But not common folk. Where do you come from, boy? A magical land where coin grows on trees, and the rivers run red with wine, and there’s a loaf and a chicken under each bush? Next you’ll tell me the local septon doesn’t steal from you, and each girl is a maiden on her wedding night.”

“I’m only from the Riverlands,” he shot back. He felt his ears grow hot. It wasn’t like he didn’t know hardship. Father was only a landed knight, and if he hadn’t helped orchestrate the Red Wedding, the whole family might have had to face winter without any help from the Frey’s incomes. He and Donnel even had to help bring in the harvest sometimes when they were small.

“Aye, but you’re a lord’s son, I’ll wager.”

“A lord’s grandson,” he muttered.

“Ha! I knew it,” crowed Ryam. “Elsewise you wouldn’t wonder why an honest man has to travel far and wide to feed his family. Tell me, boy, have you ever toiled a full day in the fields or on the lake because it was the only work going? Blisters raise in places you never knew you had, because working a spade or a shovel is mighty different from wielding a sword. You might earn a decent wage for your day’s work, or you might not, it depends on how honest your lord is, and how much coin he had to start with. The next day and maybe the one after, you won’t be able to fight with all your blisters and aches, and before long the inn will throw you out. After a few years of that you think, maybe I’ll get married, a wife will keep my house and fix me a warm plate when I come home, and maybe rub my feet if I’m lucky; but soon after the ceremony your wife’s belly will swell with a third mouth to feed, then a fourth and a fifth. How are you going to support all of them when you can barely afford your mount and your armor? Not everyone can be Ser Barristan and win renown in tourneys. I’m good with a sword and better with a bow, but if the lords aren’t feasting or hosting weddings during wartime, there’s nought for me to do.” The speech stoked his thirst. He downed the last of his ale with a glare.

“Doesn’t your wife work though? Mine does,” he offered, feeling a swell of pride as he bragged about his Kitty. A good woman should help her husband, and no one could starve on two incomes. Maybe up in the North, but not in the Reach. “Can’t she make up the difference in lean times?”

“Aye, she takes in washing, but so does half the town. Only so much washing to be done.”

Alyn had arguments for that and more, but he was interrupted by the lady. “Mummery pays better, anyway,” Retha said, putting an end to the brewing argument. “A good crowd on a festive night, and I might make enough extra to buy my grandchildren presents from the capital.”

“Are you performing during the wedding?” asked Olyn. He took a satisfied slurp of beer. His taste for politics stretched as far as complaining about the King’s Landing smallfolk, and no further.

“Not during. The Queen has planned a very somber ceremony, I hear, to honor those lost in the Sept explosion. No music, no flowers. They’ve cleared a place in the rubble to say their vows, and a septon is coming from Oldtown to lead a prayer for Good King Tommen before the service. Horrible thing,” shuddered Owen, “What the Imp did. Storing all that wildfire beneath the Sept, waiting for just the right occasion, then…” He mimed an explosion.

“ _Tyrion_ blew up the Sept?” Alyn asked, incredulous. This was the first he was hearing of it. At home, everyone said that the explosion had been an accident. “But why? And how?”

“Well, who _knows_ how,” muttered Retha. “But it didn’t benefit anyone else, I think you’ll find. Why else would the dragon queen take a Lannister as her own Hand? The explosion took our dear Queen Margaery and any child Tommen might have given her, and wiped out those who would avenge them. If Tommen hadn’t taken his own life out of grief, mark my words, the Mad King’s daughter would’ve been swanning around him within weeks, flirting and batting her eyelashes. She got Jon Snow as a consolation prize, little good may it do her.” Retha spat on the floor.

Ryam repositioned himself on the bench and got out his wagging finger. Clearly this discussion was well-worn amongst the three of them. “I’ve told you before, Lord Tyrion is well known to have been in Essos when the Sept caught fire. I don’t know how you reason your way out of that one. He might well have stored the wildfire there, I grant you, but—”

“Detonated on its own, did it? Who else knew where it was stored? No one’s seen that eunuch in years, they could be working together—”

Owen coughed into his hand and leaned back in his chair, motioning for another round. Alyn had an idea he misliked the discussion as much as he himself did.

“All I’m saying,” Ryam continued, over Retha’s squawking, “Is that the explosion was very convenient for the Queen. When you think back over everything that’s happened since King Robert died, who’s benefited from it all? There’s no way she could have arranged his death, of course, that had to be an accident, but _every other death_ around her has been suspicious.” He stretched out his palm and began to count on his fingers. “One, Ned Stark executed for treason. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard that he’s a man to shirk his duty—the man brought his bastard _into his own home,_ by the Father. Two, King Joffrey poisoned at his wedding feast. She blamed it on the Imp, but it could’ve been anyone at the high table—”

Retha rolled her eyes. “She’s a mother, Ryam, she’d not hurt her own _children_.”

“Three,” he continued, louder, “Tywin killed in the privy. I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen women wield a crossbow with as much skill as a man—"

Owen departed for the privy, where he presumably did not fear being killed by Tyrion or anyone else. Alyn took that as his cue to leave, too. If he didn’t hear any treason, he couldn’t report it. Ryam might be wearisome company but he didn’t want to doom the man to an early grave.

Essie had assured him more than once that he was free to take a load off in their back room at any time. Initially he hadn’t seen the need, but he was glad of the offer now. He didn’t want to talk of plots and explosions and death by crossbow, he wanted to rest his legs and have a nice meal before he had to go and break up fights between Ironborn and Westermen, was that so much to ask? Whatever Cersei had or hadn’t done, she was his queen and he would follow her orders, end of discussion. It wasn’t his place to question her. Ryam would be a happier man if he just accepted it.

After a long moment in which he closed his eyes and leaned on a stack of crates, Essie entered, bringing with her the clamor of the common room and the damp smell of boiled cabbage. That brought a smile to his face. It reminded him of home. “Don’t mind me,” he said, emerging from his cocoon of crates. “I’m just hiding from duty for the nonce.”

“Well you deserve a break, they work you too hard.” Her arms were too full to pinch his cheek as she normally did, so she settled for a proud smile that made her cheeks dimple. “Our little Alyn protecting the capital.”

“Aw, it’s hardly protecting, is it? Just shooing off drunks and telling pickpockets to move along.” He relieved her of a bag of trash and heaved it into a corner, to be put out in the street on the morrow. The mention of “our little Alyn” was more familiar than he liked, but the woman had no children of her own. Kitty had warned him that she and Cliff would probably try to make him the son they never had, and time was proving her right. His wife was very often right, he was finding. “Wanted to check in on you, make sure no one’s causing trouble.”

“Not yet, but that might change when night falls. No one’s been drinking for more than a few hours yet.” She handed him a tray of empty mugs. “Set this down on that stool there—yes, that one, thank you dear.” With a sigh of relief she wiped her hands on her apron. “But how are _you_ doing?”

“Fine. Just wanted to get away from that table for a moment, they’re arguing _politics,”_ he said, wrinkling his nose to convey his distaste. “Those Reachmen think Cersei isn’t the proper queen.”

“Still on about that, are they? You think they’d have enough sense not to mention that in front of the City Watch, but there’s no accounting for intelligence…”

“I _know!_ ” he gushed. He was beginning to think she and Cliff were the only people in King’s Landing with any sense.

“In any case the last true king died years ago, in the North,” she said with a finality that made his stomach sink with foreboding. “If that Maid of Tarth ever comes in here, she’ll have me to reckon with. She thinks she’s man enough to tangle with Stannis, well, we’ll see how she fares against my frying pan.” She seemed completely serious as she said it, which only served to make him more uncomfortable. Stannis had been her liege lord, he could understand her loyalty, but to continue singing his praises when he was long dead, and killed by a _woman_ …

“We’ll have to agree to disagree about that,” he said finally. “Stannis forfeited any right to the throne, if he ever had it, when he started using that red witch to win his battles for him.”

“I forget myself,” she said in tones of maddening patience. “In your lands it’s more customary to win battles by murdering your guests at the dinner table.”

“We did nothing wrong,” he said hotly. Fingers curled into fists. “Robb betrayed us. And it was Lord Bolton that killed him, Father only fought the Greatjon.” _And lost,_ he didn’t add.

Essie sighed. “And you were how old during all of this? Ten, eleven? I don’t blame you for the deeds of your forebears, no more than you blame me for being born in the shadow of Storms’ End. Right or wrong, we’ll each do what our own conscience tells us.” Her error was assuming that his conscience would be telling him _anything_. All he was hearing right now was that he was foolish to rely on anyone but his own kin.

Upon storming out, he found his partner just where he’d left him, following the Reach party’s argument with avid interest. He had a nasty feeling Olyn planned to go straight to Commander Sand with tales of this conversation the moment they left. Ryam was still in full flow, damning himself in ever more interesting ways. “All I’m saying is, we’d never have seen an Ironborn as consort when Lord Tyrion was Hand,” he was saying. “He’d have married Tommen off to someone untainted, not that there’s anything wrong with Margaery—”

“We’re going,” Alyn interrupted, cutting him off mid-sentence. He was in no mood to worry about perceived rudeness. “Thank you for the company, and we wish you good luck in the lists and good custom with your mummery. Dinner and drinks are on us,” he announced to general surprise and pleasure. The ill-gotten groats from earlier seemed to burn in his pocket. At least this way he could put them to good use.

The wedding went off with all appropriate solemnity, but the feast that followed cheered even Alyn of his moodiness. The Queen had worn a somber, simple gown in the ruins of the Sept so as not to draw attention away from the loss they had all suffered, but before the feast she shed her modest garb and emerged in a confection of red velvet and gold samite, jewels dripping from her person. All real diamonds and rubies—Kitty had checked when the jewels were first brought out of storage. In a nod to her husband’s heritage, Cersei wore a new crown wrought of iron. Euron too had a new circlet made special for the occasion, as Margaery’s crowns obviously would not serve.

Later that week, Alyn would lie and tell his fellow gold cloaks that he and Olyn had been granted entry to the feast itself; in truth, he’d only caught a glimpse or two through the double doors as they stood guard down the hall. He was well pleased to see Kitty granted a place of honor next to the Queen’s own aunt Genna. She’d have to tell him everything that happened later, so he could lie convincingly.

In such uncertain times it would’ve been in bad taste to throw a wedding feast as long and lavish as the one King Joffrey had enjoyed; nevertheless, he caught aromas of peppered boar, crispy suckling pig, steamed lobster from King Euron’s home islands, mussels stewed with Dornish hot peppers and onions, buttered pease, mushrooms dressed with goat’s cheese and breadcrumbs… he even caught a whiff of beets, that his family was so convinced he hated. He hoped Kitty was having a double helping for him. The thought of the night they’d met, when he brought her a plate of buttered beans and honeyed squash, warmed him against the chill of inactivity.

He and Olyn could at least enjoy the musical entertainment without an invitation. “The Rains of Castamere” accompanied the wedding pie, then “The Mermaid’s Lament” was played in honor of the Lord Reaper’s family, followed by the old standards “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” and “Seasons of My Love.” They both hummed along to “The Dornishman’s Wife” as they patrolled, but the singer Galyeon’s newest composition, “Golden Queen and Iron King,” left him cold. No one had composed ballads for his and Kitty’s union, and it hadn’t hurt them any. It seemed a waste. He was quite certain the Seven Kingdoms would never see a second Lannister queen and Greyjoy king. When would anyone ever sing that song again??

Afternoon turned to evening, and evening to night. Candles were lit in the Queen’s Ballroom. Olyn amused himself by stealing mugs of hot mead and cider from the serving girls, and making them kiss him to earn the mugs back. Alyn stole glances into the Ballroom when time and darkness allowed. His wife shared a dance with Harys Swyft, the old master of coin, but turned down one of the Lannister’s household knights, a stocky man in his twenties with a comely face and wavy blond hair. He smiled to himself and stood a little taller to see his wife so devoted to him.

At eight o’clock Ser Stanton Swygert and Muddy Gerome (so called for the street of his birth) came to take their turn outside the Ballroom, and he and Olyn took to the streets. A sense of giddy relief reigned outside the walls of the Red Keep. The Queen had yoked herself to an Ironman, and the sky had not fallen, Aegon’s High Hill had not collapsed into itself, the Imp had not blown anything else up. Pipers piped, mummers danced, and the wine flowed just as it had for King Tommen’s wedding, and King Joffrey’s before it. Toasts were lifted behind tavern windows glowing golden and warm, and if some of the toasters silently said a prayer for Margaery or Selyse instead of the new consort, no one acknowledged it. Only a handful of homes covered their windows and shut their doors tight against any merriment, but those were easy to ignore when a dancing bear capered on the next corner.

Really it had been a remarkably easy evening, he thought as his tired feet carried him back to Kitty’s apartments in the Red Keep. A cool wind had begun to blow. He picked up his pace, eager to be in his wife’s warm bed with her skinny arms holding him tight. On another occasion he would’ve liked to bring her back to the glittering Ballroom, where the dancers were still going strong in the absence of the royal couple, but this was the first night they would share in over a week and he didn’t want to waste one moment out of bed.

Kitty was dozing when he found her. She had dressed in the gauzy green nightgown he liked best, the one that brought out the golden glints in her eyes, but had neglected to remove her thick woolen socks. No doubt she had planned to take those off when she heard him climbing the stairs. He smiled a little, thinking of it. Alyn hung his golden cloak reverently on the hook next to the door, removed his outer layer of clothing, and crawled into bed next to her.

She stirred when he accidentally laid on her hair. “Owww,” she moaned, a tiny frown creasing her forehead. “My tail.”

“Your precious plait will suffer no more indignities on my watch,” he promised with mock gravity. “C’mon, Kitty, wake up. I wanted to…”

She needed no more instruction than that. Ten minutes of tussling and rolling about the bed, brief but passionate, left them both red-faced and sweating, gasping for air in the overheated room. “What was that you did?” he huffed afterwards. “With your tongue?” Usually he took control of their lovemaking, she was so timid and ladylike, but tonight…

“I’m not sure what it’s called,” she confessed, her cheeks as red as the Queen’s wedding gown. “Denyse told me about it. She learned it from a Lysene pillow slave that Euron favored. He used to keep all kinds of salt wives and thralls before Cersei made him give them up, you know… Did you like it?” She was not completely successful at keeping the smugness off her face.

“I did,” he beamed, feeling rather smug himself. Olyn _had_ gone off to the brothels when their day was over, and right about now he would be paying for the same joy Alyn got at home. “If Lady Stonetree ever wants to join us…”

Kitty hit him with a pillow. “Hey!”

“I only said, _if_.” He smiled to take the sting off it. “Did the two of you enjoy the wedding?”

“Yes, actually.” His wife sat up and began to redo her plait. “I didn’t want to dance with too many men, you know, since you weren’t there, so she partnered me a few times! It felt very odd to dance with another lady, everyone was looking at us, but she seemed to enjoy it so much that it made me happy, too.” She tossed her neat plait behind her head and rose to dress in something warmer.

“I’m glad you did.” He’d worried that with the Queen’s marriage, she would spend most of her time friendless and alone. She was such a sweet girl, but it was hard to see anything else underneath all that shyness. He’d gotten under the last layer, somehow, but few others had tried. “Do you like Denyse?” _Does she like you?_

Kitty took a moment to think on it. “I think so,” she said at last, shrugging on a flannel shift. “It‘s hard to know what to make of her. She chatters more than a crow, and she’s full of nervous energy all the time. I thought maybe she was just excited to be here, you know, after growing up in such a backwater… but then she knows Lyseni pillow secrets and wears imported perfume. She knew all of the new dances from Essos at the feast tonight, even more than Lady Merryweather. I can’t imagine where she learned those, can you?”

“Other slaves,” he suggested as she got into bed. “Volantene mummer’s troupes. Singers from Tyrosh. Expensive whores from Braavos. How should I know?”

“Do you approve of her, then?” In the dark, her voice seemed very small. He stretched out his arm and she nestled into his side, her breath hot on his neck. Alyn prickled with sweat. She loved to snuggle up with him like this before sleep, but oft as not it gave him ideas about a second round, flannel shift or no flannel shift. _Not tonight, she is tired,_ he lectured himself. _And we can do this whenever we want, now that she won’t share the Queen’s bed anymore._ He was looking forward to leaving his stiff cot in the barracks behind for good.

“Why wouldn’t I approve?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice was thick with sleep.

They laid there a long time, Kitty’s breaths even and slow. Every once in a while, the wind died and sounds of continued merrymaking drifted up from the Ballroom. A log popped in the hearth. Somewhere above them, he could hear two people talking.

“Kitty?” he spoke aloud to the dark. “Do you think Cersei is the rightful queen?” He could not say what moved him to ask her that.

“Don’t be silly,” she yawned. “Of course she is.”

“Of course,” he echoed.

Kitty waited until the wind started its steady whine again and shifted closer. “The walls have ears,” she whispered, “Don’t speak of such things inside the Red Keep again if you want us to keep our heads.” And she rolled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought you'd seen the last of Alyn. *insert "surprise bitch" meme* So, he and Kitty have worked out their differences... for the most part. And consummated their marriage, obviously 👀 Tbh I don't really feel comfortable writing anything more explicit than this for the two of them, since they're so young. That may change, though, when we move on to different pairings!  
> Thanks to everyone for their comments, and kudos, and the handful of new subscribers I got this week! You all seriously kept me motivated to write during the "family togetherness weekend" I just had 😒 In my family that means long hikes regardless of weather conditions, meat substitutes, and Bruce Springsteen sing-alongs. Yes, that face you are making is what I was doing internally all weekend. So thanks for giving me a respite!  
> Next week we'll be heading north to the Neck, where Roslin is making her painstaking way to Winterfell. And... are those lizard-lions I hear??


	19. Roslin III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roslin meets a mysterious stranger.

On the tenth day out from the Twins, Roslin began to despair.

It wasn’t just the length of the journey, she reflected, mounting her horse after a grim breakfast of oatcakes and charred squirrel. It was the oppressive atmosphere under the tall gloomy trees that made her feel she could scarcely breathe. It was the pale chalky moss that grew up the treetrunks and rubbed off on everything that came near; it was the long tendrils of weeping willows that brushed her face as she rode underneath, giving off the faint smell of rotted leaves. It was the shadows that shifted under the lowering trees when she turned her head, the dim light turning every log into a hidden lizard-lion, every clump of reeds into a spying crannogman. Yesterday Hoster had brought her a bouquet of vivid purple flowers that had, for a moment, lifted her spirits, and reminded her of color and light; but those had made her break out in a rash. And when she had breathed too near to one of the pools of still water so common to the Neck, her eyes itched and watered, and she sneezed so many times Jolyon became convinced she was having a fit.

Still, she might’ve borne it better if the crannogmen offered any respite. The strongholds of the Riverlands had at least provided food and fuel for their fires, if not shelter; but they’d seen neither hide nor hair of their neighbors to the north since leaving the Twins. Small wonder that the smallfolk cursed their name and called them “frog-eaters”. She had hoped to ride to Lord Arburn Blackmyre’s keep, to rest a night or two and send a raven to her husband. Lord Blackmyre had guested at the Twins a few years back, and might remember her well. But those hopes were dashed when Jolyon only shuddered in response to her inquiry about the location of Quickhollow.

“It’s leagues out of the way, my lady, and the causeway doesn’t go there,” he said with the air of a man lecturing a child. “You or I might ride there alone without much trouble, but as for all of these…” he gestured to the line of smallfolk stretching back to meet the horizon, “I wouldn’t want to leave them here as bait for the bog devils.”

“Bog devils?” she asked, her rancor at being sidestepped ceding to curiousity. “I’ve only heard ironborn call them that.”

“And I don’t like the ironborn any more than the crannogmen, my lady, but I’ll allow they’re right this once. Nasty, sneaky creatures they are. Didn’t lift a finger to aid King Robb, and where were they when the thrice-damned Freys slaughtered my boy at the Red Wedding?” A vein ticked in his forehead. He held his righteous anger until he remembered who he was speaking to. “Ah—pardon, my lady—”

“No need to apologize, I am a Tully now.” Jolyon said nothing, but averted his eyes from the road long enough to give her a thoughtful sideways glance. Perhaps she had gone up in his estimation. “It’s a shame they’re so far out of the way, it would be such a relief to sleep under a roof for one night. Will we encounter any other castles on the causeway?” Moat Cailin was long abandoned, and Castle Cerwyn was so close to Winterfell they might as well pass it by. Utherydes Wayn had sent them off with enough food to last a moon, and they’d be able to hunt past the Neck, but food was not what worried her. The more days she spent riding north in silence, the more uncertain she became of their welcome at Winterfell. Again she was struck by the oddity of Ed’s request that she join them. Herself and Hoss she could understand, but why the rest of their people? She had not been raised to question her lord husband, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss…

“No castles along the causeway, my lady. Built that way on purpose,” grunted Jolyon. “The crannogmen don’t like being disturbed, or so they say. Me, I think they don’t like decent folk knowing what they’re up to.”

“Why do you hate them so?” she asked, daring to show her curiosity for once. “Lord Blackmyre is a decent man. He stayed away from Black Walder, and spent no more time with Father than he had to—” Roslin’s words were cut short as they encountered a tall cottonwood, left unattended to grow in the middle of the causeway. She and Jolyon diverted then, one around each side of the trunk. Its bark bristled with tiny brown stick insects fleeing to the safety and quiet of the tallest branches. “—and the Reeds are lovely, I often played with Meera as a girl,” she finished, as if there had been no interruption.

“Mayhaps up at the Twins there are more doings with the bog devils. Wouldn’t surprise me.” Jolyon set his jaw and wouldn’t say more after that. Roslin bore his company and judgment as long as she was able before allowing her mount to flag and trail behind him.

It was customary to break for a midday meal and rest the animals, but today Roslin couldn’t bear a second’s delay. The cottonwood had unsettled her. Near the Twins, the smallest shrub or sapling that dared interrupt the Kingsroad was uprooted without delay. That such a tall tree was allowed to remain suggested that few traveled this way, even among the crannogmen. Roslin ordered a rest of no longer than a half hour to dispense what provisions could be eaten on foot. Many grumbled. And yet she sensed a ripple of relief move among the older and wiser smallfolk.

To prove she was holding herself to the same standards she expected of her people, she limited herself to more cold oatcakes and a handful of persimmons. She was anxious to be off again; she was sure the trees were starting to thin, and was the blanket of scummy water covering the ground on either side of the causeway shallower than before? Likewise, she was certain Jolyn approved of her order—his mouth was less thin, anyway. _But that’s as may be,_ she scolded herself, _he needn’t approve of anything you do. You are his lord’s wife._

Hoss looked mutinous at the news that they wouldn’t be stopping for a hot meal. He refused any more of the dry oatcakes, and would accept only some dried venison, which he cast into the swamp before it was half-finished. She hadn’t the heart to even scold him properly. If she were ten years younger she might’ve done the same.

“Hoss, you mustn’t throw good food into the swamp,” she chided. “There are starving children in Astapor who would be happy to have that!” Truth be told, there were others not as far off who would be happy to eat it, too. The Master of Horse’s daughter, a weedy girl of about ten years, had followed the arc of the discarded jerky with hungry eyes until it splashed into a brackish pool of water.

“Astapor is stupid,” he pouted.

She sighed and decided to try a different tack. “Well, the mud monster _loves_ dried venison. And you don’t want to wake him up, do you?” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“What’s mud monster, mama?” Her boy did not look scared, only puzzled. This was rather different than his usual bedtime stories.

She struggled to recall what Lady Meera had once told her of the mud-drenched phantom that stalked the bogs of the Neck. It had a different name, something squiggly with a lot of g’s in it, but she didn’t remember it now. Hadn’t it carried a torch of some kind, or maybe an open flame in its hand? “Many years ago, before me or my father or my father’s father was born, there was a man of the Riverlands named… Olyvar,” she improvised, giving him her brother’s name. “He was a foot soldier in the army of Harren the Black, only a smallfolk, but his bravery and fearsomeness in battle were well known across the kingdom. He won countless accolades fighting for his liege lord. His reputation was such that the lord’s daughter was promised to him in marriage, once Aegon the Conqueror was defeated and sent back across the narrow sea.” There came a prickle of unease that she had already forgotten some essential part of the story. Did Harren even have daughters? She remembered a fair maiden playing a rather important role… “And, ah, one day Olyvar and his betrothed were riding together in the God’s Eye, following the carvings her people made on the trees to guide their way home—”

“What was her name?” interrupted Hoss. Against his will he had forgotten his hunger and frustration and been drawn into the story, she noted with pleasure. Usually he preferred the septa’s stories. She’d have to remember this one.

“Her name has been lost to history,” she said mysteriously. “What should we call her?”

“Mama!” Hoss beamed.

She could’ve wept, her little boy was so sweet. “I’m afraid ‘mama’ isn’t a name, sweetling,” she said, her voice wavering. “How about Brynda?” He was becoming very fond of the girl.

“Brynda!”

“So, Olyvar and Brynda were riding in the God’s Eye with her mother—”

“What did she look like?”

Roslin sighed. At this rate, they’d be well out of the Neck by the time the story was finished. “She was a small woman, no taller than your cousin White Walda, dressed all in shades of grey with curly brown hair and green eyes. Happy?” When Hoss nodded, satisfied, she went on. “They were riding happily through the woods when suddenly, Brynda’s mother gave a cry and toppled from her horse! The couple rushed to her side and saw that she was pierced with a wicked arrow. Olyvar, who had seen many injuries as a soldier, knew that she needed a maester immediately.” She didn’t think there had been Maesters then, but Hoss didn’t know that. “More arrows rained down upon them as Olyvar tended to the lady as best he could, while his betrothed wept and prayed to the gods to heal her mother. Olyvar longed to pursue the men who had ambushed them, who still laughed from the shelter of the trees, but he knew the lady would sicken and die if he didn’t get her to safety. Instead he vowed to hunt them to the ends of Westeros until he had his revenge. His only clue to the fiends’ identity was the green-feathered arrow that had wounded his beloved’s dear mother.

The maester labored seven long days to heal the gentle lady, but she wasted away, tormented from within by some illness. On the dawn of the eighth day she finally passed, writhing in agony from the festering wound, the lovely Brynda still at her side.

Brynda had no room in her heart for suitors then, and turned Olyvar away whenever he tried to comfort her. He vowed for a second time that he would avenge his beloved and find the men who had murdered her mother.

Harren the Black, otherwise a hard man, found his soul pierced by the agony of his only daughter, and offered Olyvar a hundred men to track down his wife’s murderers, with an additional purse of gold to the man who slew their leader.”

That didn’t sound like Harren… yes, she’d definitely got something wrong. Regardless, she plunged on. “The hundred-and-one men tracked the Band of the Green Feather across the Riverlands, but there was no sign of them. Everywhere they went, the smallfolk said ‘no, milord, haven’t seen that kind ‘round here,’ and scuttled back to their hovels as soon as Olyvar turned his head. Years passed and their number dwindled, lost to sickness or desertion. At last only Olyvar and his four most faithful companions were left. Olyvar’s hair had long since turned to grey, and still his Brynda waited for him at Harrenhal. Before much longer she would pass beyond childbearing age, he knew, and he decided to give up the quest for vengeance. For who was to say the murderers hadn’t died themselves, or fled beyond the Wall? And letting Brynda waste away her life as a maid would help no one.

So, Olyvar returned to Harrenhal, ready to resume the life he’d given up that fateful day, but one remembered his face at the gates any longer. ‘I am Olyvar, sworn sword of Harren the Black and the betrothed of Lady Brynda the Fair. My companions and I have chased the murderers of Lady Hoare across many lands, and many have fallen in the Lord’s service. I come home now to claim my bride.’

Then, a grizzled old graybeard _did_ recognize him. ‘My son,’ he croaked, and Olyvar knew it was his own father, who he had not seen in a lifetime! ‘My son, I welcome you. I am so glad to see you again, at this late hour of my life. But your beloved is gone.’

‘What is this nonsense?’ Olyvar growled, forgetting his joy at meeting his father again after so many years in his distress. ‘Brynda is the truest maiden on this earth! She would never take another husband!’

‘No, my son, but that is not the only fate that can befall a delicate young lady,’ said his father sadly.

‘You don’t mean to tell me she has died?’ It was the one thing he had not dared to contemplate. The image of his beloved’s face had not dimmed throughout the years, and even in his darkest moments, Olyvar had not dared to imagine that she, too, could die.

‘I don’t know if she still lives, my son, because the day after you left on your quest, she fled into the swamps of the Neck, wailing and tearing at her clothes. Her mother’s death took her hard, and your leaving harder still. The lady was insensible with grief. Lord Harren sent his fastest riders after her, but even they could not track her, for she knows the swamps better than anyone. She has never returned.’

At this, Olyvar wailed and beat his breast, for his worst fear had come true. Brynda was lost to him forever, when they might have lived happily ever after if he had not needed his revenge. Even his father could not talk sense to him. Before the night ended, Olyvar had departed again, leaving his devoted companions behind. They say he walks the Neck even now, searching for signs of his betrothed among the swamps and crannogs. ‘Brynda,’ he calls, ‘My love, come back to me. There is time yet! We could be happy, if only you would forgive your Olyvar his foolishness.’ They say he carries a torch in one hand, and the green arrow that slew her mother in the other. He covers himself in mud to hide himself from Lady Hoare’s murderers, and climbs trees when the sun is highest to search for carvings of his beloved’s sigil to guide him to her. After so many years, he is more mud than man.” 

Roslin, with relief, ended her tale. Her voice was growing hoarse after such a stream of talk. “So you see, sweetling,” she finished, “If you feed the swamps, Olyvar might think you mean to aid him! Elsewise why would you give him supplies? Tonight, when you lay down to sleep, listen closely for the sucking sound of his footsteps in the bog, for he cares for no one but his betrothed! He may think the sweet little boy who fed him this morning would be the perfect way to lure his beloved back to his side!”

Hoss burst into tears. “Mama,” he wailed, “I don’t want the mud man!”

Later, when Hoss had calmed down and slipped off to sleep in his palanquin, Roslin again cursed the swamp. It must be the unhealthy airs that made her forget her better judgment and tell her young son such a frightening tale! She now remembered that she and Arwyn had stayed up all night after hearing it, jumping at each noise, though Meera went straight off to sleep. Perhaps the crannogmen were made of sterner stuff, living the brutish lives they did. With luck, Hoster wouldn’t say anything to his father about it. Ed hated scary stories. His sister Lysa always used to come to sleep next to him, or Catelyn, or Petyr after hearing a frightening tale, even when she was no longer a girl; and look how that had turned out.

But her tale had drawn attention from other quarters. The thin, stricken girl who had thought to retrieve Hoss’ food scraps from the bog still walked behind her, and Roslin had noticed her following the Tale of the Bog Devil (as she was beginning to think of it) with keen interest whenever she glanced back at the column stretching out behind them. Now the tale was over, though, she had lapsed again into the dull monotony that so plagued the smallfolk.

_She is only a girl,_ she thought, _not so much older than Hoss._ “Are you getting hungry, child?” she heard herself say.

The girl started. “M-milady?” she gasped, her eyes darting around to see if anyone more important was in the vicinity. “Are you speaking to me?”

“Yes, dear,” she said gently, not wanting to spook her more. Odd for the daughter of their Master of Horse to be so skittish! “You look hungry, and there are miles to go before we camp again. I have some persimmons in my bag…”

The girl was stretching out her hands before the sentence was out of her mouth. The fruit was gone in under a minute, disappeared into her greedy little mouth, juice running heedless down her chin. Only when she’d sated her appetite did she remember her courtesies. “Th-thank you, milady,” she said shyly. “I was very hungry, but I feel better now.” She attempted a curtsy, leaving sticky palm prints on her dress.

“I’m glad.” Roslin smiled. “I think you enjoyed the story earlier, too?”

“I did milady, I never heard that story before. Is it real, or a child’s fable?” asked the girl, no more than a child herself.

“Parts of it may be real,” she allowed, “But it’s been many years since it was told to me, and I might have mixed up parts of it. And if Olyvar was ever real, he’s not still in the bog.”

“Oh.” The girl looked like she had more questions, but Jolyon had caught Roslin’s eye. _It must be time for the daily recitation of my failings,_ she seethed, then chided herself. _No. It is only right that he should guide me, remind me of my duties to House Tully, as Ed bid him do;_ but surely he could do so in a kinder way.

“My Captain of Guards begs my attention, my dear, but if you follow my horse tomorrow you may get another story,” she promised the girl, whose eyes lit up.

“I will, milady!”

“Please, call me Roslin.” It was such a simple thing, she thought, to make the smallfolk love you; the girl nearly burst with excitement at this small concession. A pity her own father had never learned the knack during his ninety-some years in this world. “And what is your name, dear?”

“Merry, mi—Lady Roslin.”

Good deed done, she trotted off to face the implacable Jolyon. But to her surprise, he approved. “That was kindly done, my lady,” he admitted as they rode together. “Your husband also likes to ride among the smallfolk, when time permits. He would be proud.”

Roslin suppressed her pleasure at the compliment, tucking it very deep in her heart to smile over later. “Any decent woman would do the same, really. The poor girl is too skinny for how tall she’s grown. If we do encounter any crannogmen, I won’t have them say the Riverlands can’t feed its people.”

“Talking of that…” Jolyon lowered his voice. “Your decision to press on rather than break for lunch today was a wise one. If you are still open to my suggestions…” There was a brief flicker of something that might have passed for a smile on a different man. “I think we should keep to that schedule, at least until we pass Moat Cailin. There’s been naught to hunt in these accursed woods since a day out from the Tw—your castle,” he finished. “A few of the men with keener eyes have spotted squirrels here and there, but they’re queer things, black as pitch and near as foul. Not fit for civilized folk.”

Roslin felt a drop in her stomach. She’d had a feeling for some days that Jolyon was keeping things from her, things he deemed “men’s business.” This must be it, then, and the situation truly dire if he needed to share it with her. In a strange way, she was reminded of her father—not that she’d ever be so rude to mention it to Jolyon. He, too, preferred to make insinuations and poke at a thing from the bushes rather than face it head-on. Her next words were carefully chosen.

“Am I to infer that our food supplies are not where we would like them?”

“You _are_ to infer that, my lady. It’s not dire, not yet… but much and more may yet befall us before we reach Winterfell.”

The slow _tock, tock_ sound of their horses’ hooves was swallowed by the pale, fleshy mouths of the broken and mouldered reeds. She peered into a rotted stump as she passed, fascinated despite herself at the roil of shiny black insects within. Would they be reduced to groping for such sustenance before they left the Neck? A bullfrog croaked, close at hand but unseen in the gloom, and she jumped. Black squirrels or no, there _was_ something unsettling about these woods. Even her Captain of Guards seemed uneasy as he passed below the grasping tendrils of the weeping willows.

Roslin found herself silently tallying up the numbers of her people as she rode. As of last night, less than ten of her people had fallen on the march, thank the Seven. And with one exception, they’d all been poorly before setting out. The last was an orphaned lad who had unwisely sampled the swollen purple berries that grew in fitful spurts along the causeway. He’d succumbed in a paroxysm of vomit within hours, the poor foolish thing. But that did not bear thinking upon. They walked three or four abreast on the causeway, now, and if each person kept a similar distance from those in front of him… her mind creaked to life, the wheels hesitant to turn again after so long left to rust. It had been many years since Maester Brenett had taught her figures. What did he used to say..? “You can make a good guess at the height or weight or amount of anything, Rosie dear, if you break it down into small enough parts first.” Well! Perhaps she could, if only she could see the end of the column—but it twisted on away from her, forwards and backwards, like the gnarled roots of an old oak. _Or cottonwood, as it were._

They made camp for the night only when it was too dark to go on, and the horses in danger of a misstep. Hoster woke to gulp down some dinner and went straight off to sleep again, cheeks smeared with fruit pulp. Smiling, Roslin wiped his sleeping face and left, lured by the smell of a nearby fire. A savory odor was just detectable under the fug of peaty smoke. She hung back, enjoying the smell and pondering whether it would be kinder to chat with the men around the fire, or let them finish their meager meal without having to share it with her. There was a sudden “pop” as something meaty hissed and sizzled from the slow-turning spit into the fire. Her nose twitched at the sudden burst of cinders.

As she watched, the man turning the spit added another hunk of meat to either side. Whatever they were eating, it was ample. She decided to risk it.

“May I join you for a few moments before I turn in?” she asked delicately, directing her question to the man at the spit. If he was given free reign over the meat, he must be chiefest among them.

The man to her left gave a hoarse chuckle. “You needn’t ask, milady, what’s ours is yours.”

The man at the spit did a small jump at the use of ‘milady.’ “L—Lady Roslin,” he sputtered, nearly toppling into the fire in his anxiety. “Sit, please! Here, take my spot, it’s the warmest.” There was an awkward hop and crab-walk, and the seat was vacated, free for Roslin’s ladylike behind.

The prospect of being spattered with hot grease did not please her, but the night _had_ grown quite frosty. Perhaps it would be an improvement. She thanked the man and, to the amusement of all, began turning the spit herself. “Like this?” she asked, looking to her crablike companion for approval. Her stepmother Annara’s words came back to her. _Be ever sweet and pliant,_ she recited in her head, _but do not flirt._ A man that you did not wish to marry should find you desirable, but always too remote to touch. You could tease and provoke to your heart’s content if you did so with an innocent look and plausible deniability.

The men goggled at her, as she intended, except for the eldest who looked well used to such tactics. “What are you eating tonight? More squirrel? I confess I gave most of my meal to my son.”

“Then you must share ours, milady,” said the gaunt man to her left with gusto. He even appeared to mean it. “If you can stomach lizard-lion, that is!”

“Lizard-lion?” Roslin wondered if they were teasing her. It sounded truly vile. In the dark she couldn’t tell if they were smirking at her, or if the flames were playing tricks.

“Aye, milady, Darren speared one just as it were growing dark,” he said, jutting his thumb toward the man who’d given her his seat. She nodded politely, but apparently not politely enough.

“They’re not bad,” he said defensively, “Crannogmen eat them all the time, when they can’t get better.”

Somehow that didn’t improve her disposition. “It may prove too exotic for my taste,” she ventured, “but I could try it, if you wish.”

“We wish, we wish!” Darren chanted, and thrust a smoking skewer at her. “You can even have the best part—the tail.” She looked down and saw, as he said, a scaly tail protruding from the end of the skewer. The smoke streamed off it in the cool wind. Roslin fancied for a moment that the tail was still wiggling, and thought she might be sick.

The other men’s eyes gleamed at her, feverish, in the darkness beyond the fire. Were they ill? _They might be playing a trick on you_ , she thought, with a sudden burn of suspicion. _Mayhaps you are not supposed to eat the tail._ But she could not think of any graceful way to get out of the situation; she had, after all, asked to share their meal.

She waited a beat longer, hoping Jolyon or someone would intercede on her behalf, but no one did. Gingerly she fingered the charred skewer. She did not even want to touch the crusty thing with her fingers, and she was supposed to put it in her _mouth_? Her eyes followed the line of the smoke, still twirling off the morsel and dancing into the lowering canopy above. There, now she could almost imagine she was picnicking at the Twins with her sisters, eating a leg of capon under a starry sky. “Your health,” she wavered, and the men snickered.

She did not chew the first bite, merely held it on her tongue and waited for her gag reflex to kick in. Nothing. Tentatively she worked it around her mouth; _not bad, really,_ she thought, _crispy and savory._ Too fatty by half, but the taste was rather like chicken. Before she knew it she’d wolfed down the entire skewer. Her companions around the campfire were laughing and applauding, she noticed with detached satisfaction, which meant it was time to take her leave. She would not have it said around her husband that she spent the journey north flirting with his men around the campfire.

There were no linens with which to wipe her face, so she hoped any traces of grease around her mouth would not show in the dark. She silently promised herself she could wipe her mouth on her sleeve when no one was around. “That was more to my taste than I expected,” she admitted, and her companions chuckled again. “Perhaps I will suggest to my lord husband that we serve it at Riverrun on occasion, if lizard-lions are so plentiful and close at hand.”

“There’s plenty more, milady, if you’re peckish—” said the man to her left, but she waved him off.

“You must reserve it for yourselves, I don’t wish to take food from your families’ mouths. I was more curious than hungry, I confess. Thank you for sharing what you did.” The faces around her perked up at that. As she departed, one or two shy children scampered over to beg skewers of fresh lizard-lion. Their grinning faces as they ate looked like skulls in the firelight.

The next day dawned brighter than any they’d spent since the Twins, she noticed, and the frost was already melting away under her people’s feet. Perhaps that meant they were nearing the edge of the great forest. And if the temperature went above freezing today, as the sun promised, they might camp quite comfortably under the stars tonight. Once off the causeway they would make better time. They might reach Castle Cerwyn in—she did some quick figuring—six days time! No one would starve on six days of reduced rations. The prospect, along with the tepid sunlight, made her feel almost cheerful.

But when she shared her optimistic thoughts with Jolyon, she was met with a grim rebuff. “We’re not as far north as you think, begging your pardon,” he said with gruff indifference. “And I don’t like the look of that sky. It is well we traveled so far yesterday.”

The sky looked fine to her, she thought as she gazed up at the clouds, blinking feebly in the sun. Jolyon would say no more about it, retreating into his characteristic language of squints and grunts. Back at Riverrun she would have never thought of pushing him into frivolous small talk, but the hopeful morning had lifted her spirits, and she longed for conversation with another adult.

“Well, it is lovely and warm right now, so let’s press on,” she suggested, smiling benevolently. Jolyon tutted. She decided to believe he was agreeing with her. “I may have done something very silly last night. I hesitate to tell you; you’ll want to scold me for being so careless.”

Jolyon sighed. “Out with it,” he commanded.

“I was taking my walk through the camp, as I do every night, when a few of the men invited me to share their fire.” He didn’t need to know that she’d invited herself. “They offered me roast lizard-lion!! Can you believe it? I had no idea one could eat such beasts. I half thought they were teasing me. But I tried some, and you know, it wasn’t at all bad. Tasted like poultry. Have you had it? I was wondering if we might not hunt some more of them while we’re in the Neck… supplement our stores…” She trailed off as Jolyon’s face darkened.

“One of the men shot a lizard-lion?”

“I assume so, because they were eating it.” Darren _had_ shot it, hadn’t he? She struggled to remember last night’s conversation. Surely they hadn’t cooked up something they found lying lifeless in the swamp??

The bog devils won’t like that,” he muttered. “They love those creatures almost as much as their gods.”

“Oh.” Now that was just daft. The Tullys took a trout as their sigil, but still ate fish from the river all the time. “Is that why I keep seeing these carvings of lizard-lions on the trees?” She’d spotted the first one during the Tale of the Bog Devil, right at the part where the fictional Olyvar was looking for his beloved’s sigil in the trees; and kept seeing the sign of the lizard-lion cropping up the rest of the afternoon.

“What carvings?” Jolyon’s voice held a note of suspicion.

“Every so often we’ll pass a tree with a lizard-lion carved into it. High up, so you wouldn’t see it unless you were looking. There’s one, there.” She pointed.

Shading his eyes, Jolyon squinted up through the trees. “I’ll be,” he muttered. “Lady Roslin, how long have you been seeing these?”

“I noticed the first yesterday afternoon. I can’t say if there were others before it, I wasn’t looking.”

Before she could say “King Jaehaerys,” he dismounted and stalked to the base of the tree, eyes cast skyward. _He’s not going to—he can’t—_ But he did. With the vigor of a much younger man, he leapt up to grab the lowest hanging limb, nestled his foot into the crook of the tree where two branches parted ways, and swung himself up. There was the briefest moment where she could still see his muddy boots hanging down, then they, too, disappeared into the foliage.

“Jolyon?” she ventured, peering up the trunk into the leaves. She prayed his footing was steady. “What are you doing? I thought you wanted to make good time today, and—” she looked about her, “People are starting to stare,” she whispered.

He ignored her question. Edmure really would need to hear about this, if he kept treating her so. And in front of the smallfolk! Face burning with embarrassment, she hissed again, “I insist that you explain this folly!”

“It _is_ a lizard-lion, my lady, or a near enough approximation,” he called down at last, in his laconic way. “You have sharp eyes. Wait now while I get down.” The branches above her rustled alarmingly.

Back on solid ground, he had the grace to look sheepish. “Begging your pardon for the delay, Lady Roslin, but that is the queerest thing. Thought they might be blazes, marking a trail of some kind, but why are they so high in the trees? That’s no use to anyone.”

“Perhaps some crannog child carved them years ago for sport, when it was nearer the ground,” she suggested.

He regarded her with the frank disdain normally reserved for particularly slow children. “Trees don’t grow like that, my lady.”

Roslin had to bite her tongue lest she unleash her anger upon the man. It was a reasonable theory! How could she be expected to know that? A gentle lady’s education did not include the intensive study of flora and fauna. “Well, perhaps they were climbing trees, then,” she said dismissively. “What does it matter?”

Jolyon chewed the inside of his cheek as he mounted his horse. “I wondered… what was the story you were telling young Lord Tully when you saw the mark?”

“Oh, that? Some bit of fluff I heard when I was young, and half-remembered. I had it from Meera Reed and thought of her when we rode into the swamp.”

“Hmm.”

“Out with it,” she commanded, turning his earlier words back on him, but he would say no more.

Hours had passed and the sun risen to its zenith when he halted under another tree. She had almost forgotten the entire affair, riding along in quiet contemplation, and balked. Her mare, Sandy, whinnied her disapproval and sidestepped to avoid running into his mount. “What is it this time, my Captain?” she asked. “More lizard-lions in the trees? Or water lilies this time, perhaps.” She could not resist the small verbal jab.

“No flowers of any kind,” he grunted, not catching her joke about House Fenn. “I’ve been looking for those blazes since you told me about them this morning. But this carving’s somewhat off the path, d’you see? The others have been right next to the causeway. Did you see any others that were further off in the swamp yesterday?”

“No,” she answered, fascinated despite herself. “What do you make of it?”

“I’ll wager there’s another one off in that direction,” he said, pointing to the northwest. “You’ve got better eyes—do you see anything? Stand here, next to me.”

Roslin slid down Sandy’s back and squinted into the dim forest. “I… might,” she admitted, though she could only make out a bright patch halfway up the trunk of an elm. It might be a carving, or it might be a bit of moss. “I couldn’t say for sure.”

All his earlier ire forgotten, he did a quick appraisal of her and her mount. “You’re a decent horsewoman, I’ve noted it as we’ve traveled. Even in this muck I think you could lead me into the swamp a ways, and back out again with no great harm.” _What does he consider “great” harm,_ she wondered, but he went on. “I’ll take a look at that one, if you’re willing.”

Reluctant as she was to stray from the causeway, Roslin knew she had to do as he asked or lose the tentative respect she’d earned forever. Still she felt hesitant to ride into those dark woods, and leave her boy behind. But if her Captain of Guards thought it safe…surely it must be? He was risking his own safety as well. _Ed would not appoint a careless man to such a high position,_ she told herself, and almost believed it. Thankfully the path through the bog was easier than it looked. Her mount’s hooves sent up great splatters of mud that soiled the hem of her gown, but her footsteps were sure as ever, and they met with no harm coming to the tree.

They both gazed up, shielding their eyes from the midday sun, until Roslin let out a yelp of excitement. “It _is_ a lizard-lion! And there’s another, some ten yards off. Jolyon, do you know, I think we’ve discovered a path.”

“I’m inclined to agree, Lady Roslin!” He shifted restlessly in the saddle, and she sensed he was trying to contain his excitement. “The signs are there if you know to look for them, but fearful hard to see if you don’t. I wouldn’t have noticed them myself if you hadn’t pointed them out.” He allowed a brief smile of approval to pass over his face. “Now where do you suppose this leads?”

She gathered that he had a shrewd suspicion, and so did she. “Shall we ride on and find out? How long do you have before the end of the column catches us up, do you think?”

“An hour?” he suggested, and chewed his cheek again. He surveyed her with a question in his eyes; “Do you dare?”

Now it was her turn to shift uneasily. “Do you think it’s safe to go off the path?” Her eyes returned to the slow column of Riverlanders on the causeway. Hoss’ palanquin was already out of sigh.

He shrugged. “As safe as any other part of the swamp. If you’ve a fright, my lady, you could return to the causeway…”

“No,” she said with a firmness that turned his head. “What have I to fear, with my trusty captain by my side?”

Still, she thought, it was one thing to marvel at the swamp from the relative dry safety of the causeway, and quite another to delve into the murky depths with only her horse and her Captain. She could not say who was better company; both were silent as the grave. She didn’t feel much like talking herself. Why had she told Hoss that awful story? Why had Meera passed it on to her in the first place??

The one blessing in all this was that she could keep track of the carved lizard-lions with ease. Off the causeway, the marks grew larger and more bold. Jolyon was able to spot them himself, now, he didn’t need to rely on her keen eyesight anymore. Only her pride, and—she had to admit—her fear of riding back alone kept her by his side. _If we haven’t found anything by the time I count to one hundred, I’ll go back,_ she promised herself. But when she reached one hundred, she found she was in no hurry to turn around. Memories of last night’s roast tail came back to her. It would be the Stranger’s justice for her to sup upon lizard-lion one day, and find herself in the belly of its brother the next. At least Jolyon had a sword. And as much as he obviously disliked her, she knew he would lay down his life in her defense, giving her time to gallop away. _That’s awful,_ she thought, and shuddered, but nevertheless the knowledge was a comfort to her.

A bullfrog croaked at her feet, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Heart pounding, she grabbed at Jolyon’s steady arm and found his wrist instead. To her surprise his pulse nearly matched the pace of hers. There was a drop in her stomach. _He’s afraid, too,_ she realized. Somehow that made her feel better, though she could not say why.

“We should head back,” she suggested. Jolyon would never propose it himself, but might allow himself to be persuaded by her fear. “It will be time for the midday rest, soon. Maybe you can try the rest of that lizard-lion. It might go down better now you’ve spent the morning tracking the beasts.”

“Head back if you wish, I can follow the blazes myself now,” he grunted, and she knew she’d misjudged him. Now he’d started, he wouldn’t quit until he’d sniffed out some bog devilry, or the marks disappeared. He was proving to be just as headstrong as her Ed. She knew from experience that it would be better to say nothing, so she crept along behind him, bristling at every small noise.

Time passed. The elms of the morning gave way to more cottonwoods, then interspersed with weeping willows. The reeds reached up to her eyeline, and those awful purple berries that took the life of the young orphan boy grew now in abundance. Underfoot, rotting leaves lay piled in drifts up to Sandy’s knees. She could not say how her mount kept her footing. The dank odor of a thousand squirming wriggling things reached her nostrils, and she pulled her sleeve over her nose.

For the second time that day, Jolyon drew up his mount in front of her. “Wait,” he cautioned, and sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke, Lady Roslin?”

“No,” she moaned, miserable, “Only stale water and dead things.”

His nose continued to twitch. “That’s smoke, or I’m a wildling. Come!” And he darted off at a faster clip.

Roslin followed as slowly as she dared. She had long since lost any enthusiasm for this notion of Jolyon’s. With the sun overhead and the ceaseless chatter of her people around her, it had seemed a fun diversion, but every foot deeper into the wilderness they went chafed at her. They were well north of the Blackmyre lands now, and that was the only part of the Neck with which she enjoyed passing familiarity. This part of the neck was wild, ancient, and strange, not fit for a godly woman. _Why did I go along with this foolishness,_ she lamented to herself as they trudged along. Was this some plot of Jolyon’s, to lure her into the woods so she could meet with an unfortunate accident, unseen by any of her husband’s people? The thought might have roused more of a reaction if she were not so cold and listless. Sandy seemed to sense her misery, and her ears perked.

But were those voices? Roslin straightened in the saddle. Yes, that was Jolyon’s distinctive rumble, and a lighter cadence that sounded like a younger man. Had he found some holdfast where they might take a bit to eat and refresh their horses? She spurred Sandy into a canter, and drawing abreast of an enormous boulder, found her captain talking to a slight man in a simple brown hood.

“—about a mile hence,” the stranger was saying, as she came within earshot. “It’s not much, but I’d be glad to host you of a night. My daughter is waiting for me to return before she puts on the kettle. It would be no trouble to set a table for four, rather than two.” He spied Roslin, turned his face her way and threw back his hood.

The stranger had a friendly, open face with an abundance of laugh lines around his mouth. He was older than she but younger than Jolyon; somewhere in his early fifties, she guessed. Grey was just beginning to touch the hair at his temples. “Well met,” she said softly. Jolyon shot her a look she could not read. She decided not to mention her name, in case he had fed the stranger some cock-and-bull story before she arrived.

“Well met, my lady!” he answered politely. So he was gently bred, at least. “I was just offering to host you and your father for the night—”

“It’s only the hour of the swallow,” Jolyon interrupted, “We have time to return to the causeway.”

“Aye, and you might even reach it before full dark,” said the stranger, with inappropriate cheer. “Or you might founder in the swamp and find yourself a meal for lizard-lions. Your choice. It’s no trouble to me either way.”

Jolyon set his jaw, and she saw she must intervene or remain at an impasse until the three of them expired and sank into the swamp. “Where is your holdfast?” she asked politely. “Is it far? I confess I am weary, and long for a sip of something hot.”

“I was just saying, it’s not quite half a league away,” he responded, grinning. She glanced at Jolyon, whose face showed naked disbelief. Her own face might be doing something interesting as well, she realized, and hastily rearranged it into a placid smile.

“We would be in your debt if you and your daughter would host us for a meal,” she admitted. If he was telling the truth that it was just he and his daughter at the holdfast—which she suspected he was—they were in little danger. She was nearly as tall as the man herself. Jolyon could probably lift him off the ground with one hand.

“Very well,” he said, and smiled. There was no trace of the sharkiness of her brother Black Walder about it. She decided to trust to luck.

As the stranger was on foot, they followed slowly, taking extra care to avoid downed limbs and clumps of suspicious greenery. Roslin kept a wary eye out for more poison kisses. She had a feeling Jolyon was paying closer attention to their surroundings in order to avoid conversation—even now she did not know if he agreed with her choice or not. She herself was too tense for much speech. Their guide did not seem to notice or mind their silence, expounding at length about the unseasonably nice weather, and his last harvest, and the daughter he had at home. From the way he spoke, Roslin gathered that the daughter was of an age with her. In truth she did not relish meeting the girl. As seemingly friendly as this man was, his daughter could be of a completely different disposition; the Seven knew she and her own father were as different as two people could be. If it got out that she was Lady of Riverrun during their visit, they could expect bold hints about favors at best, and threats of letting them die in the swamp if she did not take on the girl as a lady-in-waiting at worst.

At last she could stand it no longer. “Are we nearly there?” she asked, voice stiff with courtesy. “I’m afraid my bones will not bear much more rattling—we have ridden further today than I am accustomed to do.”

“Oh yes, my lady, almost there. In fact… you can see the very top of the tower from here, if you’ll look over this way,” he said pleasantly, gesturing. And indeed, a wooden spire reached hopefully for the waning sun behind the trees. It was taller than a holdfast had any right to be, she noticed, and wondered for the first time who they had happened upon.

At the sight of his keep, the man picked up pace. “Keep following the path—I’ll run ahead and tell my daughter to call for dinner,” he instructed, turning to give them a broad smile even as he pranced away backwards. “It’ll be no more than a moment.”

“How ought we to greet your daughter?” Jolyon called after the stranger as his figure disappeared into the trees.

“Yes, and what is your name?” Roslin remembered to ask.

“My name is Howland,” came the cheerful reply, though he was now out of sight. “Welcome to Greywater Watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😀 IT'S HOWLAND REED TIME!!! I LOVE Howland. He is possibly my favorite fictional character to not actually appear on-page. And just to get it out of the way--that conventionally attractive guy who is supposed to be Howland in Bran's vision is bullshit, so I'm electing to ignore it. My personal fancast for Howland is Richard Hammond. Don't laugh, now.  
> There's no evidence that Roslin and Meera ever met each other, but my headcanon is that they played together sometimes when Meera's mom was still alive. Howland might not leave his swamp, but there's no reason to think Jyana stayed at home all the time. Interestingly, the Freys are the only other family that uses the name "Jyana" 🤔  
> "The Tale of the Bog Devil" is 1/3 crannogman folk tale, 1/3 Roslin's imaginings, and 1/3 a story my grandpa used to tell me and my brother. Much like Roslin, I was up half the night after hearing it many times!  
> Next week, we'll be spending time with a new narrator. Guess who!


	20. Meera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprised by Roslin's sudden arrival, Meera acts the reluctant host. Howland reveals a secret.

She was sitting idle in the entrance hall, watching the sun drop in the sky and occasionally poking at her sewing, when her father burst in with an enthusiasm that would’ve been more suited to a lad of three-and-ten. “We have guests!” he announced with glee. “Run now and find Cressa, and I’ll have ale sent over.”

Father wasn’t fooling her this time. “If it’s Lord Quagg again, count me out,” she sighed. “I’m not in the mood to be poked and prodded.” Gerrett Quagg was all smiles and deference with Father, and his reputation around the Neck was spotless. But ever since it became common knowledge that she was Howland’s sole heir, he’d visited more and more often. “Just passing this way,” he’d say when he turned up, or “We’ve a bumper crop of long beans this year, wanted to share.” Yet when the shadows grew long and Father retired to bed, Lord Quagg would produce a bouquet of flowers or a bracelet of bronze for Meera, things that couldn’t be explained away if he was “just passing.”

Father did not trouble to ask after her thoughts. “Not Gerrett,” he said dismissively. “Southern folk! From Riverrun or thereabouts, or I miss my guess.”

Oh gods, had the news gone that far already? “Is it Lord Massey?” His letter arrived last week, after a lengthy journey through two other castles via raven, boat, and messenger. Now that lands and a lordship were in question, potential suitors were oozing out of the woodwork, some even from outside the North.

“ _Nooo_ ,” Father stressed, growing impatient. “An older man and a gentle lady—his daughter, he says, though they don’t favor each other. Not _everyone_ in the land is after your hand, Meera.”

Feeling chastened, Meera set down her needle. “It’s late in the season to be traveling… from Riverrun, you say? Heading north?”

“Indeed. Now if you’ve grasped the situation, would you run and tell Cressa we’ve guests for dinner??” His voice rose until it neared Meera’s own pitch, meaning Father was either very excited or rather nervous. Visitors at Greywater Watch were almost unheard of, and surprise visitors even more so. Now that she considered it, it was more than passing strange…

Cressa would hear nothing of haste, of course. “Visitors?” she squawked, her thin eyebrows drawn upwards as if by hooks. “I’ve not been warned.”

“No more than I was,” she smiled. “Only two, it shouldn’t be difficult to stretch our rations.”

“S’pose I could make a squirrel stew,” she said, staring wistfully into the cookpot. “That’s if you don’t want any meat to break your fast, mind. We’ve those beans Lord Quagg brought, and neeps… Greens, too, if you wish.”

“That will do, and we needn’t any meat for breakfast. Eggs will suffice.”

That sorted, Meera bustled off to dress. Her rooms were so warm and full of cheer that she wished for nothing more than to crawl into bed and stay there, but instead she pulled on her most becoming ensemble, a smart gown of olive linen trimmed with the fur of a shadowcat. Mother had always said green brought out her eyes. After a moment of consideration, she picked up the bracelet Lord Quagg had gifted her and fastened it about her wrist.

She could hear Father’s merry voice as she descended the stairs. “…no trouble at all, really,” he was saying, “We’ve nothing but spare rooms. It gets lonely of an evening, me and Meera knocking about all alone. Visitors are most welcome.”

“We thank you,” came the reply, in pleasing feminine tones. There was something familiar about it… Meera quickened her step.

A third voice spoke up, deep and gruff. “We’ve traveled far today. Might my daughter take some refreshment?”

“It will be some time before the evening meal, I fear, but we can offer seed cake or bread and butter before we sup,” she offered, stepping into the hall. Father looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten she was around. The man who’d just spoken was unknown to her, but the lady..!

“Roslin?!” she said in disbelief. “Roslin _Frey_? Is it truly you?” The woman dithering next to her father was undoubtedly the friend of her youth, but what dire need could bring her _here?_

“Meera,” she replied, sounding relieved. “I so hoped we were being led to your castle, but I could not quite believe it… this is your father, then?” She nodded in Father’s direction, politely ignoring his pop-eyed confusion. The man at her side shared his look, though he hid it better.

“Yes, this is my father Howland! I forgot you had not met before. Father, this is Roslin Frey—Tully, now,” she corrected, still dazed with surprise. She would not have guessed it was her friend if she met her in a crowd. At Seagard she favored girlish looks, piles of silk and lace and fur in every color of the rainbow. The woman she had become sported a simple traveling cloak of grey over a mud-stained dress that might once have been a reserved navy. The youthful, innocent looks that the other girls had so admired remained, but there was a tautness about her mouth that had not been there when they were children.

“Well met again, Lord Reed,” Roslin said, with what passed for a friendly smile. “I am heartily sorry for the lie we told you just now, but we thought it best to travel in secret. One never knows who they will meet in the wild places of the world.” Father nodded in kind, but he could not hide his furrowed brow. Meera felt sure he would not have invited them in if he knew they were associated with Freys.

Before Father could demand the man’s family history—for he would, no matter his current stance on violence—Meera intervened with a handshake. Jolyon’s lined face registered surprise, and instead of taking her hand, he coughed uncomfortably into his own. _Damn,_ Meera thought, _I should’ve curtsied._ It had been so long since she’d needed to!

The barest necessities thus dispensed with, Father made an abrupt turn on his heel and marched toward the entrance to the Great Hall. Their guests exchanged a look of obvious distress. Meera could not help rolling her eyes. _I just spent four years north of the Wall, and of the two of us, I’m the one who remembers her manners!_ Father had been left to stew at Greywater Watch for too long. _“_ Come,” she bid her guests, “Father’s just off to the Great Hall to build up the fire and make us comfortable. We’ll follow at less of a clip.”

Roslin did her ladylike duty on the way, complimenting the threadbare tapestries and remarking on how warm and snug castle was, for a structure made of wood. Meera did not mention that she did a deal of the upkeep herself. Their home had fallen into such a state while she was gone that she now devoted much of her time to helping their staff clean and maintain it. Roslin’s compliments pleased her. The castle was nowhere near the equal of Winterfell, of course, but her work had not gone unnoticed.

Their companion may as well have been mute, for all he added to the conversation. “Jolyon, I’m sorry to make you listen to two girls’ chatter. It’s been so long since Meera and I have seen each other, I can’t help myself!” Roslin said in the same placating tone she used to use with her older siblings. “But Meera’s brother will join us before long, I expect. He will have a better idea of what game we can expect to hunt before we’re out of the Neck.”

Meera’s heart fell into her stomach. Waves of grief still swept over her when she spoke with someone who thought he still lived and breathed. It never got easier to break the news. “Actually… Jojen is no longer living,” she confessed, her voice gone thick. She blinked rapidly and hoped they wouldn’t notice in the shadowy hall. “It’s just me and Father here, now, and our staff.”

“Oh…” Roslin looked horrified. “I’m so sorry, I hadn’t heard. What a boor I am for intruding on your time of grief! Please forgive us, we’ll go at once.”

“There’s no need, it’s been a few years,” she explained, launching into the story she had concocted on the long, solitary march south from Winterfell. “Jojen and I were traveling when he was injured. Then I was detained… it was some time before I could return and tell Father. I’m not surprised you didn’t know.” She dabbed at her eyes and trusted their discomfort would prevent any more questions. Only once before had she told that story, to Father, and she’d hoped never to do it again.

It was a relief to enter the small dining room off the Great Hall where she and Father habitually took their meals, though even through her grief she grimaced a little at its shabbiness. With just her and her father in residence, she hadn’t realized how it would look to an outsider. _Mother would never approve of receiving guests like this._ Father, never one to stand on ceremony, rose from his seat at the head of the table with a great false smile that didn’t suit their somber conversation. He hadn’t thought to set two extra place settings, she noticed as she approached the table, and she tried to shift the plates and cutlery around without their guests seeing. Spotting her red eyes, Father shot a questioning glance her way. “Jojen,” she mouthed, and there was no need to say more.

“What brings you both to the Neck?” he asked, shifting right into the mode of garrulous host. Even his distaste for Freys could not completely dampen his naturally cheerful disposition. Meera took advantage of the moment to wipe her eyes. But Father needn’t have intervened, for their guests fell on the fresh bread with the rapacity of starving dogs. Roslin did not even bother to butter it. A host of wights could’ve galloped past their table and they wouldn’t have noticed.

“We are heading north to Winterfell, to join Lord Tully,” Roslin’s companion said finally, when the silence became uncomfortable. He scowled at Father and offered no more news. Roslin selected another piece of bread. _Is she avoiding my eye?_ She remembered her friend as an open book, but many long years had intervened since they had played together at Seagard.

Father seemed to be the only one at the table oblivious to the undercurrent of suspicion. “Oh, is Lord Tully visiting his nieces and nephew? Lovely, lovely,” he chattered. “Ned often said that he wished the children had more family. I wish I had known he was passing this way, I’d have invited him to stay a night or two.”

“I daresay you would have,” grumbled the other man. Meera frowned. There was no call for such rudeness, whatever their history.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your title, Ser. Are you in service to the Tullys?” she asked innocently, keeping her eyes on the bare space where her plate would be, if she hadn’t redistributed them to their guests.

“Our Captain of Guards.” Roslin beamed. They made a puzzling pair, the proper Lady of Riverrun and her gruff guard. Strange that she should be friendly with someone so ill-mannered, whether he served her husband or no. It was one thing to look down on her people from his home in the Riverlands, another to show such open discourtesy to his host. Her friend must have changed much. Meera set down her napkin. She no longer had any appetite.

Dinner came and went. Roslin gave the meal effusive praise, though she left half of it on her plate. Jolyon frowned the whole evening but ate everything placed before him, and went for seconds.

When they had licked their spoons of the last course—a boiled pudding of nuts and cranberries, with a pale custard—Father pushed back his chair and patted his belly. Even stuffed full of rich stew and warm bread, he was still a deal thinner than Jolyon. “I so enjoy a good pudding. Meera tries to warn me off sweets, but each time we have guests I take advantage and eat my fill. I thank you.”

“Don’t think I won’t have words with Cressa for serving it,” she teased, but her heart wasn’t in it. She had tried, without success, to turn the conversation back to their errand the whole dinner. Every time Meera mentioned their journey, or asked after Lord Tully’s health, Roslin would answer with a smile and launch off into another topic less close to home. Even Jolyon had once been drawn into conversation by the mention of fishing, and after a lively dispute on the best variety of bait, Father had offered to give directions to a local fishing spot before he left. Roslin smiled into her pudding as the men spoke, and Meera had a feeling she had chosen the topic in order to obscure the question of what they were doing in the Neck.

“If you still wish to offer us your hospitality…” Roslin’s eyes darted shyly to meet Father’s. “I wonder if we might be shown to our rooms? As nice as it is to see you again, Meera, it’s been a fearfully long and wearisome day. I should catch up on my beauty sleep before I see my husband again.” She tittered, the sound not covering her nervousness. _Roslin never needed beauty sleep before._ Something was amiss.

“Of course, my lady,” said Father, with a trace of disappointment. “Meera, would you—”

“I’ll be fine in the boathouse we passed,” grunted Jolyon. “Stay with the horses, you know. Think I’ll be more comfortable there.” He left unsaid the true reason he would prefer a cold night in the open to Lord and Lady Reed’s company. “If I could just beg a blanket or skin—”

“You’ll beg for nothing,” Father interrupted. “The homes of crannog folk may not be as grand as those in the South, but I won’t have it said that we can’t offer a man meat, mead, and shelter. Our guest quarters are more than adequate for your needs.” His voice climbed an octave with each sentence. _He’s getting riled,_ she observed, frowning. Meera rarely saw her father angry, or even cross, but if anything got his hackles up it was disrespect for his homeland.

“Lady Roslin can take the spare room down the hall from me,” she said before Jolyon could argue. That room had been clean and neat the last time she checked. “If you’ll follow me… Ser, Father will show you to our guest wing.”

“Of course! Jolyon, we’ll set off after breaking our fast tomorrow?” When he nodded, Roslin gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Meera tried to hide her surprise. The girl she had known would never be so carefree as to kiss a man who wasn’t her kin. Was that how Southerners greeted each other now?

Something of her friend’s old nature returned when the men left, Jolyon stumping off to the guest quarters, Father following merrily in his wake. “Now he’s gone, I must apologize for Jolyon’s cheek tonight,” she murmured, blushing and lacing her arm through Meera’s. “He is a man of the Riverlands through and through, including his… prejudices.”

“They still fear the crannogmen in the South, then.” Well, that much had not changed, at least. Meera found she did not care very much. She had not cared for many things she used to, of late.

“Some do. Not anyone I choose to associate with.” Roslin sighed as they mounted the stairs. “But he is my husband’s man, and loyal, and that cannot be scoffed at. When you are married yourself, you will understand.”

Marriage was the last thing she wanted to discuss. “Your rooms are that way,” she said stiffly, pointing at the far end of the hall. “I’m in here. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch a spare sleeping shift.”

“But…” They halted in a bubble of torchlight. Her friend’s eyes showed huge and expectant in her white face. “May we not visit together for a while? I thought perhaps we could sew and talk, as we used to…”

“I thought you were tired.”

“I only said that to get rid of Jolyon.” Her friend bit her lip—an affectation Meera did not remember. “He can be tiresome.”

She laughed suddenly, surprising herself. “Father can get like that too. Come in, come in.”

They settled down in her darkened sitting room, the rising moon outside throwing stripes of light across the floor. The fire still crackled away from when she’d changed for dinner. With a friend to share the small space, it was positively cozy. She took up her sewing again, and Roslin unearthed a skein of wool from a nearby basket and set to knitting. It was not so different from the last time they had met, but for the stillness of Greywater Watch about them instead of the clamor of Seagard. A scarf began to take shape under Roslin’s industrious hands. They spoke of everyday things, what was happening in the south and what Roslin’s various brothers and sisters were getting up to. Neither Jojen nor Roslin’s deceased siblings were mentioned. Meera hemmed a skirt as they gossiped about Queen Cersei’s upcoming marriage. _This is nice,_ she thought wistfully, seeing Roslin giggle. _I have missed having friends._ Osha and Hodor did not count, and Leaf was… beyond things like friendship. That evening’s worries about Roslin’s motives faded further away with each inside joke and old story.

After an hour of reminiscing and japing, Meera, determined to keep the festive mood going, called for spiced wine. “I don’t like to drink much, but I can make exception for a special occasion.”

“I don’t drink often either, just at feasts,” Roslin confessed. “It’s so hard to keep weight off after a child. But...” Her knitting returned to her lap and she leaned in. “It feels a bit _naughty_ , to be drinking with you, isn’t it? I feel like I am twelve again, and sneaking sips from my elders’ cups.”

Meera choked on her wine. “Me too!” They giggled together.

“Would that Lyra and Walda could be here, too. And your brother…”

She did not want to go down that road. Tonight was for laughter and friendship. There would be time to spare for grief come morning, when Roslin left. “Tell me about your son,” she prompted.

Roslin glowed like a hearth fire. “I wish I had brought him to meet you, only I wasn’t sure where we were going…” To hear her tell it, young Hoster Tully was the sweetest, kindest, most talented child ever to grace the soil of Westeros, a boy as hearty as his father, and sweet-tempered as Roslin’s own dear mother, but with his great-uncle Brynden’s fierceness. Meera did not listen to the particulars, studying the love and pride on her friend’s face instead. Would she feel that way, if she had sons of her own? Did Father feel like that about her and Jojen?

The fire waned as her friend wrapped up a story about young Hoster’s exploits with the poison kisses. “Ah, yes, all children of the swamp learn about those, to their folly,” Meera said, smiling, and tossed another log onto the fire. “It’s something of a rite of passage among us. You can tell Hoster he is a true crannogman.” _Or not,_ she remembered. Lord Edmure might not approve.

“He’ll like that. He is fascinated by your lizard-lions.” Roslin sipped from her mug, surveying her over the rim. “Children are the greatest joy there is, Meera, I hope you’ll have your own soon. Our babies should be friends. It might do much to heal the rift between our families.”

“I’m sure I will someday. I’m the heir to Greywater, now,” she mumbled. “Actually, when you arrived, I thought you were Lord Quagg come to court me.”

“Would that please you?”

“Not in the slightest.” She longed to confide in someone else her growing dread that Lord Quagg would propose. Her tongue was beginning to run away with her, but she went in for another gulp of wine anyway, feeling reckless. “Lord Quagg is a just man, and generous, but his daughter Minna is near as old as me. If I must have stepchildren, I’d prefer we weren’t milk sisters.”

“ _Meera!_ ” Her friend let out an awestruck laugh. “You really are being bad!”

“Well, it’s true!” she protested. “Your husband is older too, but from what I heard at Winterfell, still handsome. More importantly, you are his only wife! I don’t want to live in another’s shadow.”

“I can understand that.”

“It’s not only Lord Quagg,” she went on, defensive. “I’ve heard from others.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for Willamen.” Roslin grinned.

When she was seventeen, Meera had gone to a wedding at Seagard. Lord Mallister’s daughter Lyra was to wed Ronnet Ryger, and there would be a weeklong celebration culminating in the Festival of the Mother. Her own mother was still healthy, then, and accepted the invitation on behalf of House Reed. The bride was radiant, the groom pleased with his good fortune, and Meera had laughed herself sick with her girlfriends and danced until her feet were sore. Mother had not restricted her intake of wine at the wedding feast, a first for her, and around the time the wedding pie was served she had locked eyes with Willamen, one of Roslin’s many older brothers. He had the chinless look most Freys did, but good cheekbones, and his eyes were full of wisdom. All the wisdom a man could have at twenty, anyway, which at the time seemed boundless. _Besides, I have enough chin for both of us,_ she remembered thinking. Willamen had partnered her at the dancing the rest of the evening, and when Mother had gone to bed he led her out into the yard, and in the quiet stillness under a willow tree he had kissed her.

Of course, it couldn’t last, but for those seven days they had hardly left each other’s company, strolling hand-in-hand along the Blue Fork, sitting together at the small wedding tourney. Willamen had even spoken haltingly of marriage... _But it’s for the best,_ she reminded herself. He was a maester now, and the Citadel was a much more suitable place than Greywater Watch for such an intelligent man. Neither of their fathers would’ve approved the match in any case.

Meera became aware that Roslin was watching her, a tiny smile on her lips. How long had she been lost in thought? Damn, now she’d _really_ think she was pining for Willamen. “Oh, you know, that was nothing,” she demurred, studying her stitches. “Just a bit of fun. Didn’t you decide at the same wedding that you would marry Robert Paege?”

Roslin’s shriek revealed that she’d had a bit too much to drink, as well. “I _know_! And he’s one of Ed’s friends, it’s so odd to see him now!”

“There you have it.” She could deflect questions, too.

Long after Roslin departed for her own room with a slight wobble, Meera stared into the fire and contemplated marriage. _Mother and Father’s own marriage was arranged,_ she told herself. _And they found a way to be content._ Her parents had few interests in common, yet the home they made together had been a good one. She and Jojen could not have been more loved. Could she have that family back, if she married and bore her own children? It might be best for Father, too… he was so lonely… Would Lord Quagg really be so bad? _Yes,_ she thought immediately, making herself snicker.

She found her bed cold—with Roslin about, she had forgotten to warm the sheets. _It is fortunate I have a bed to go to at all, cold or no,_ she reminded herself. Times had not always been so fortunate. At least she was not bedding down outside. She punched her pillow once, twice, and burrowed down into the blankets to dream. As she drowsed, she mused on Ser Justin’s flattering letter, and tried to remember Willamen’s arms around her; but in the moment before she dropped off, she saw Bran’s face, smiling at her in the black of the Three-Eyed Raven’s cave.

Meera woke all at once, dredged from dreams of earth and roots and many-eyed creatures. Something had moved. Or had it? The loud thump that first woke her was receding already into dream-memory. Perhaps it had never been real. Nothing stirred now in her stuffy chamber. _Still…_ She waited, heart racing, propped up on an elbow, head cocked to catch the sound of any slithering movement.

Her heartbeat eventually slowed of its own accord. _This is your home, nothing can touch you here,_ she lectured herself. Even Jolyon would not risk bedeviling her in Greywater Watch, no matter his politics. Not on his own. She was more concerned about other things that went bump in the night.

“Who’s there?” she called, sounding a little wild. The dark did not have an answer for her. A trickle of sweat ran down her neck. She had been so sure someone was there… or some _thing_. “Show yourself!” Her voice was stronger this time, commanding. Still, there was no reply, not even the sound of a muffled footstep on the rushes. In one swift, decisive motion, Meera threw back her bed hangings.

A pale wraith hovered at her bedside, dressed in winding grave-sheets and illuminated from below by a long taper. Two black hollows burned in its face where eyes should be. Meera’s throat closed and her pulse hammered in her ears. _The wights,_ she thought desperately, recoiling, _they’ve come for me at last,_ before the figure lifted its candle.

It was only Father, looking apologetic and wearing a long bedshirt. The deep shadows beneath his eyes told her he had not slept this night. “Did I disturb you?” he fretted. “I didn’t mean for you to be frightened, I only meant to come unmarked. Can’t be too careful with Freys about.”

 _Seven hells,_ she thought, reverting to one of her mother’s well-worn expressions in her relief. “S’fine,” she mumbled, relaxing and running a steadying hand through her curls. “Just having bad dreams.”

“Again? Oh, Meera,” he sighed. “I thought those had stopped.”

They hadn’t, she just stopped telling Father about them. “For the most part. Pray tell, why have you come to haunt my rooms so late at night? If you want Cressa, she’s down a flight of stairs.” It was no secret that her father sometimes spent the night with their devoted cook, and for the most part Meera was happy to ignore it. Better that than he should remarry.

“You know about that??” he squeaked.

“Everyone does.” Meera sighed and rubbed the sleep-gunk from her eyes. “What _is_ it, Father? Roslin and I shared a bit of wine, and it’s made me sleepy.”

“I had a notion to pray in the godswood,” he said brightly, as if it were high noon. “The old gods will be out. Come! We’ll go together.”

“But—” _It’s the middle of the night. It’s freezing. Mother’s and Jojen’s souls can wait until morning._ Several excuses came to her, but she sensed he would accept none of them. When Father got an idea in his head, he could not be persuaded out of it for all the gold in Casterly Rock. She had long wondered if that was why he and Ned Stark were such good friends. “Just let me change into something warm,” she muttered, sitting up. “You might do the same.”

The copse of trees where their weirwood grew was smaller and less grand than Winterfell’s, but wilder, a last faint impression of the once-great forest. The bogs of the Neck could take a body and spit it back out, years later, with hardly a change to its features; and sometimes Meera felt they had the same effect on Greywater Watch. Very little changed here, compared to other places. Bulbous cypress trees emerged from the boggy earth, reaching for the clear skies and fresh air above. Poison kisses lingered in each corner, blowsy and fragrant. In kinder seasons, ducks, sandpipers, and warblers filled the godswood with their cheerful chatter; black and grey squirrels raced each other up the tree trunks, chirping and casting down an occasional nut or fruit to bounce off an unwary worshipper’s head. They were protected from large predators before the heart tree by a natural fence of—what else?—reeds, but even at prayer one could not be certain of safety. Snakes were common in all seasons, and kneelers’ toes would be vulnerable to snapping turtles if they did not take care. At night, owls and frogs sang a throatier chorus. Curious possums poked their noses out to sniff the air as Meera and Howland ran along the rope bridge from their crannog, nimble and fleet-footed as foxes.

They knelt in unison on a platform of hard boards before the heart tree, and Father murmured prayers for Mother and Jojen, which was usual, and for Ned Stark, which was not. Meera, already getting to her feet when he started in on Ned, had to hastily resettle herself. _Visitors from Riverrun have made him think of Catelyn_ , she told herself, _and by extension, Ned._ She only hoped he would not say anything embarrassing or foolhardy, for she was well aware that Bran could see anything that took place before a heart tree, whether she willed it or no; and she was not sure Father always remembered this. Her feet grew cold as she waited, and her heart colder.

When they rose, the sacred quiet was broken by a sharp _crack._ It proved to be not an ice-laden branch, as she’d thought, but Father’s knees. The long minutes they’d knelt before the heart tree had not been kind to him. He stood gingerly, wincing and rubbing at his joints. “These boards are harder than when I was a boy.”

“You’re just old,” she teased. “And the boards are _frozen_ , Father.”

“Still harder than they used to be,” he muttered. Then, as if their prayers had not intervened; “Did you get anything more out of your friend Roslin after dinner?”

“No,” she had to confess. She took his arm and they drifted away from the weirwood. Its eyes seemed to follow them. “We did have a nice long chat in my room, but she said no more about why they are going north. She could not stop talking about her son, or Lord Tully. Maybe she simply misses him… but didn’t they say their people were waiting back at the causeway? Why would they travel in a large party like that?”

“Why indeed.” They reached the rope bridge, passing out of sight of the weirwood tree, and she relaxed. The godswood was no longer the refuge it had been before she had ever known Bran or the Three-Eyed Raven. There were always eyes on her when she walked there now, crawling over her skin. “Meera, I have to say, this whole episode has unsettled me. Freys on the causeway… Rivermen summoned to Winterfell… even during the war it was not so. I cannot _imagine_ what Lord Tully was thinking, to ask his wife to ride up the causeway! Our house, of course, would never attack a defenseless woman—”

“Never.” Somewhere off in the swamp, an owl hooted in agreement.

“—but my bannermen do not all share my views. More of them than I would like are haranguing me to declare open hostilities on the Twins, now Walder is dead. Some have taken action without my leave.” He sighed, running a hand though his hair. It stood on end the same way Jojen’s used to. “I can’t say I’ll feel much sorrow if a stray arrow finds a Frey, but I can’t endorse it. Trouble is the last thing we need with winter upon us.”

 _Winter and wights._ “I hadn’t thought of it until you said, but you’re right. Lord Tully has to know we crannogmen wouldn’t be pleased to see her riding through our midst.” An unpleasant notion surfaced. “You don’t think… maybe he wants to be rid of her?” That didn’t match the rosy picture of married life Roslin had painted for her… but then, there were parts of Bran she hadn’t guessed at, and she’d spent rather more time with him than Roslin had with her husband.

“If he does, sending her past Lantern Isle would certainly do it… Though I have never heard that Lord Tully is so devious.”

“Nor have I.” Meera took a moment to arrange her thoughts, the rope bridge swaying comfortingly beneath her feet. “Maybe she has some plan of her own, and only says Lord Tully summoned her to placate that awful guard. I don’t remember her being so sneaky, either, but…” _Old Walder’s blood runs in her veins, lest you forget._ It had been harder than Meera expected to get information out of her. Perhaps she had learned something from her family.

It was not just the stiff breeze, now, that made Father fidgety. “The more I think on this, the less I like it,” he said, sounding unhappy. “The remoteness of his castle has kept Lord Greengood from making too much mischief, but Lady Tully and her party are riding straight into his lands. He will not let such an opportunity pass. His blade will be thirsty for Frey blood… and if a riverman gets in his way, so much the better.” He stepped off the bridge and turned to face her as she took her last few steps. She’d caught her leg in the ropes once, as a child, so now he always watched as she stepped down.

Meera had never known relations between her father and Lord Greengood to be positive—they considered each other a warmonger and a craven, respectively—but the situation must have deteriorated even further while she’d been away. _It’s because I was not here to speak sense to him,_ she thought, not without a measure of guilt. Father could convince himself of very strange ideas if left alone too long. Mother had checked that impulse when she was alive… Meera, afterwards. She feared he had grown even more eccentric without her and Jojen around to remind him of normal things. Ideal conditions for an ambitious bannerman to make trouble. “Maybe if you sent a messenger to Lantern Isle, threatened retribution if he harries the Tully party…” she said doubtfully. Like as not, Lord Greengood would pretend the message came too late.

Father bared his teeth, another sign of his increasing discomfort. “I have been thinking it might be time to leave Greywater Watch,” he said, startling her. It clearly pained him to suggest anything of the sort. “We cannot risk war with the Riverlands with winter upon us, we _cannot,_ and I’m not confident Lord Tully will believe I didn’t order an attack on his wife. It’s been twenty years since Ned and I came back from Dorne—”

“Near thirty, actually,” she reminded him gently.

Father’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “No, that’s… Has it been so long? I still see a wee girl when I look at you, but truly… if you’re so old…”

“Not near as old as you.”

“Ha, ha.” The lines in his face softened a trifle at the well-worn banter. “Shall I share a secret with you, my girl? Why not, you are the lady of the house now.” He sighed. “After what I saw in Dorne… what I had to do… I swore I would never take up arms again, unless it be in defense of my family. Ned was good enough to understand. He promised never to call me unless there was great need. And he never did. That is why I did not do more to aid Robb.” The simple pain and regret on his face felt almost obscene to witness.

What was she to say to that?? _“I understand, Father, we have all made decisions we regret”?_ Well, she could not understand. For a moment she could feel Jojen’s blood on her hands again, thick and sticky. She wiped them surreptitiously on her cloak. “I… do not see what you’re getting at, Father. What has this to do with Roslin?’

A bitter laugh escaped from Father’s dark silhouette. “Little and less. No, I was thinking of Lord Tully. If his wife is slain in my lands, duty dictates that he seek retribution, no matter his personal feelings for her.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” she asked baldly. Meera longed to go inside and warm her icy toes at the hearth, but instinct told her Father was on the verge of sharing something important with her. He could not keep still, so overwrought was he with nerves. He looked like little Rickon with an ill-gotten sweet. “Would you keep them _here?_ Send a raven to Lord Tully and ask his advice?”

“There is something else I have not told you.” Her father’s grim expression did not sit comfortably on his face. “I might have done something most unwise. Come.”

With a last longing look at the great pine doors to their castle, she followed him again into the dark.

He led her along another rope bridge to the boathouse, where Jolyon Keath had proposed to spend his evening. Inside, they found a few husks of boats, great coils of rope that had not seen use in years, a few oddments from the castle that she recognized from childhood, and a smell of spoiled fish. Meera had not visited the boathouse in a long time—she and Jojen had left for Winterfell on foot—but it did not look any different than she remembered. Perhaps more clutter had accumulated in the intervening years. A teetering stack of used crates and discarded trunks sat against one wall. Dust furred every surface. She could not imagine why her father had brought her here.

“Am I meant to find something strange about the boats?” Now she looked closer, one had taken some mild damage… but if he planned for the two of them to take a journey by river or stream, they could share. 

“It’s not the boats we’ve come for. In the back, here.” He gestured toward the pile of crates.

The cloth that covered the stack might once have been white, trimmed with a border of grey. It was hard to judge in the trembling light of their thin candle. Meera hesitantly brushed at the cloth, a layer of thick sticky dust clinging to her fingers. _Stark colors?_ Yes, definitely; she’d seen similar hangings and banners at Winterfell. The trunk it covered was about the size of the one at the foot of her bed, but felt curiously light when she tried to shift it. _Did Brandon send something to Father?_ Why? She knew of no reason why they should even be corresponding, let alone exchanging gifts. And if her father was keeping it secret out here, it couldn’t be anything good.

Against her better judgment, she threw back the cloth and wrenched at the rusty clasp. She dimly registered her father protesting “Meera— _no_ —” behind her, but she took no notice. If he was keeping secrets, she needed to know.

A foul stench billowed out as she raised the lid. The stench of death. Meera glimpsed a pile of white sticks and a row of glittering teeth before snapping the lid shut again, heart pounding. The sick plummeting feeling in her stomach returned. “Seven save us,” she gasped. “Father, why do you have him??”

“Catelyn sent him north,” he said quietly. “After the Silent Sisters were done with him. He took some time to get here, with the Riverlands in turmoil, and then the Boltons took Winterfell, so…”

That explained the dust. “Why didn’t you return him to Winterfell before now?” _And why are you keeping him in such squalor,_ she refrained from asking. She hadn’t known Ned, but Bran’s father deserved better than to be laid to rest in a forgotten boathouse at Greywater Watch.

Father had the grace to look ashamed. “I couldn’t find a good time,” he confessed. The twitchiness was returning. “When Jon and Sansa took back their castle, I thought, maybe… but then you and Brandon turned up. I thought I’d be heading up there soon enough for your wedding, Meera. Why make two trips?” He sighed. “Ned could be returned to his home, and we’d see our houses joined, and you and Brandon could come back to Greywater with me. We’d always planned for the two of you to be wed.”

 _“Always,” he says now._ An overstatement if she had ever heard one. As a young girl Mother told her she was meant for Robb; the desk where she’d learned to write still had a faint carving of “M + R” in one corner. When his age of majority came and went with no betrothal, Father planted the idea of Jon Snow in her mind instead. Only after Jon took his Night’s Watch vows had it been Bran. _Convenient, how he forgets._

“Well, Brandon has made it quite clear he won’t have me,” she said, forgetting the presence of Ned Stark’s corpse in her exasperation. “And Jon is married now. I know you always planned for me to be a Stark, but we’re out of options. Would you have me try my hand at seducing Arya next? Or I could go back to the Haunted Forest, see if Benjen has a notion to take a wife.”

Father furrowed his brow. “No, I don’t think Benjen likes women very much,” he said with complete seriousness.

“He’s also, you know—not alive.” _Like Ned,_ she thought, with sudden chagrin. “Perhaps now is not the time for this conversation, Father. What do you mean to do with Ned?”

Her father gave the trunk a fond pat, sending a plume of dust swirling into the frosty air. In the moment of silence that followed Meera feared he might weep—but when he spoke, his voice was strong, decisive. “We’ll take him home. I don’t want to leave Greywater again, Meera, not ever, but now that you know about old Ned here, I can’t hide and wring my hands any longer. I trust you to make me go on, if I falter. It’s time he was back with Lyanna.”

True to their word, Roslin and her guard readied to leave just after breakfast. “I couldn’t impose upon your hospitality another moment,” Roslin dissembled when she finished her porridge and boiled egg. “On our way back I’ll send notice, and we’ll stay a bit longer.” They were less shy about loading up on food. Father only had to urge them twice before they filled up a cart of foodstuffs.

Jolyon grunted a passable good-bye to Father as she and Roslin hugged. “Let’s not wait so long before our next meeting,” she pleaded. “I’ve missed you.”

Meera fought back a smile, knowing they’d meet again in less than a week. “We’ll make sure it’s soon,” she agreed.

“I’ll write.” Both ladies moved to kiss one another’s cheek at the same time, and laughed in unison, embarrassed. _She longs for friends, as I do._ Meera, at least, was used to being alone, with no one but her brother for company. Roslin had never lacked for companionship before. She hoped Lord Tully was treating her well.

Father followed their guests at a stroll until they disappeared behind a stand of cottonwoods, waving all the while. “Funny sort of people,” he commented when Meera caught up to him. “I offered them an escort back to the causeway, but they wouldn’t take it. Who turns down a guide in the Neck? The path will already look different than yesterday. All our precautions will be for naught if Lady Tully founders in the swamp.”

“If she just follows the markers she’ll be fine,” Meera said dismissively. “She knows to look for them.” As a girl she’d fed Roslin some ludicrous story about a mud monster who found his lost beloved by following her sigil through the forest; even then she’d known her parents wouldn’t approve of openly giving directions to Greywater Watch. For months afterward she’d spent afternoons staring out her tower window, waiting for Roslin or Lyra to come paddling through the trees to play with her. Eventually she’d come to realize her clues had been too subtle.

“Oh, is that how she got here?” Clearly this was the first time Father had considered the question.

“Yes,” she laughed, “How else? I told her years ago.”

 _“_ You _told?”_ he yelped, aghast. “Greywater Watch’s strength is in its secrecy! We can’t have hoards of rivermen bumbling in here all the time—”

“Two is hardly a hoard,” she soothed, urging her father to follow her back to the castle. “And it was for the best, wasn’t it? Elsewise we wouldn’t have known about Lord Greengood until it was too late.”

“Yes, well, we’ll see if that news is any help to us,” he grumbled, not meeting her eye. “Did you tell anyone else?”

She held no illusions anymore that Lyra Mallister Ryger would come paddling up the river, so she decided to lie. “Just Brandon,” she said, feeling a brief tug of pain in her chest. “I did tell him. In case he ever needed to make his way here without me or Jojen.”

Father relaxed his brow, mollified. “Well, _he’s_ fine, anyway. Is that everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Meera felt the sharp slap of a hand coming down on her shoulder, more surprising than painful. “Well,” said her father with false jollity, “Are you all packed? Affairs with the household squared away? We ought to leave before midday, if we want to beat the first wave of Tully smallfolk.”

“Not… quite.”

While Father exchanged farewells with his cook and erstwhile mistress, Meera said good-bye to her home. To leave again, when she had only just come back, seemed a cruel joke. Each room, hall, and cubby got a visit or a glance. She ran a hand over the lizard-lion hangings in the Great Hall and spent a long moment before the family tapestry, a massive, sprawling thing, going back hundreds of years and dozens of people, each name noted with pride in slender silver letters. Here and there the branches of the family spread wide, where a single Lord Reed had eight or nine children, or a cadet branch had formed. In other places the branches shrank back to the trunk, as if withered by fire or frost. The tree of her generation was not one of the great cypresses that sheltered the castle, billowed out at the trunk, sucking up nutrients to nourish and strengthen itself; their little family of Howland, Jyana, Meera and Jojen was no more than a slender birch sapling. Fragile, and small. One good snap and it would all be over. There were cousins in other holdfasts, not to mention a good deal of Reed blood in the Boggses, so Greywater would not go unmanned; but it seemed a shameful thing for the family to end with her. _Jojen… it was meant for him to continue the family name, not I._ Meera traced his name with her finger, her eyes welling with tears.

She had a short, furious cry in her room while she packed. _Did Bran foresee this?_ she wondered. _He might have saved me the trip!_ But she knew Roslin might never have revealed her identity to Father if she had been absent, and so strolled unassuming into Lord Greengood’s clutches. It was worth the long trip home and back to save a friend’s life. Into her trunk she tossed sensible traveling things; boots, gloves, thick socks, woolen pants, woven undershirts, the furs that had seen her beyond the Wall and back. As a concession to her better nature she also packed two nice gowns, in case they should, somehow, prevail over the army of the dead and have a celebration. A few extra nets and the scarf Roslin had knitted filled out the rest of the space. Before she could think better of it, she placed Ser Justin’s letter on top, too. _And what exactly am I planning to do with that?,_ she pondered, but by then the trunk was closed.

On her way down to the Great Hall, she checked the room Roslin had used for clues, just in case. Nothing.

Two skiffs glided silently up the river, sunlight winking through the trees to speckle them golden. The contended croak of bullfrogs masked the _slish, slosh_ of their paddles through the murky water. A hooded man sat in the forward skiff, his back resting against a trunk draped in white cloth. Now and then he would turn to check on his companion, a tousle-haired girl escorting another trunk of less importance.

Father and daughter had departed Greywater Watch under a bright winter sun, carrying just enough possessions to get them to Lantern Isle and informing only the steward and the cook of their whereabouts. “Things will go better for us if everyone believes we are still at home for the nonce,” he’d said. “Lord Greengood will never think to expect us.” What they would do once they reached his castle did not bear thinking about, yet Meera could not help running through different scenarios in her mind as she paddled, each more far-fetched than the last. With luck they would beat Roslin and the riverfolk there, but what then? Would Arlan Greengood let his lord and companions pass, or simply take all of them hostage? It would not be the first time a bannerman usurped his lord in recent memory. _And if he does not detain us, what will we do north of the Neck?!_ Meera was not usually one to brood, but there was little else for her to do as they paddled the afternoon away. Perhaps they should’ve kept Roslin at Greywater with them for a while, sent word to Lord Tully that it wasn’t safe to continue… or led her people through the Neck by another route? But Father said they must go, and she, as his heir, must listen.

Still, she touched the hilt of her sword, the one she’d taken from the Three-Eyed Raven’s cave, just to make sure it was there. A sliver of steel glimmered green against the shallow pool of water sloshing about the leaky skiff. It might rust, but it was still in better shape than Father’s, left to collect dust since Robert’s Rebellion. At Lantern Isle they might be thankful for every sword they had. _Lend strength to my arm,_ she prayed, and could not say if she was talking to the Old Gods, or Bran, or herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who was expecting the sudden reappearance of Ned's bones in this chapter? I certainly wasn't 😂 Poor dude doesn't deserve to rot in the swamp. I also wasn't expecting Howland's bannermen to play any kind of role in this story, but hey, if the muses are speaking...  
> Which leads me to a note about the tags, in case anyone's following this fic for a certain pairing or character. I've removed Tormund as a tagged character, because he is playing less of a role than I expected. Instead, another character may be tagged after she appears, but not for another chapter or two. I've also added Bran/Meera as a ship tag, per the events of this chapter.  
> I also have to (sadly) let you know that updates are going to be less frequent from here on out, maybe every other week. Talla II is mostly drafted, as well as fragments of Podrick II and Jorah IV, but I've otherwise run out of pre-written material to share. It's hard to write a chapter this long every week! *cue tiny violins* But I still plan to update regularly, so please keep reading!


	21. Podrick II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran calls a family meeting, and Podrick tries his hand at scheming.

There was a saying in the North that each winter, they lost a dozen men to wildlings, a hundred to hunger, and hundreds to the cold. Perhaps that was stretching the particulars, but the saying was, in essence, truth. The climate of the North was its greatest defense—and a particular thorn in Podrick’s side. He’d spent last winter squiring for his cousin Ser Cedric at home in the Pendric Hills, where snow melted within a day, the lakes did not freeze over, and the color never vanished from the world. He thought he’d been cold then, tending Ser’s horse in the drafty stables or running his errands in the rain, but a day at Winterfell showed him what true cold was. Podrick had quickly discovered that the best remedy for the cold was a warm and wicked woman in his bed, and the second best was Gendry. His room behind the armory was one of the warmest in the castle.

After meeting on the road to Winterfell, they’d taken to spending an afternoon or two a week together, getting up to nothing much. Sometimes they’d swap stories with Davos, and one rare sunny day they’d gone fishing, but what he liked best was just sitting in Gendry’s room playing dice and bullshitting. It was nice to let down his guard with someone who didn’t look at him sideways for using the wrong word, or eating soup with the dessert spoon, or something. Podrick couldn’t say he was a better friend than Brienne—she came before everyone else and always would—but he certainly laughed more with Gendry. He was leaving the armory now, a scant handful of walnut husks rattling in his pocket after losing two out of three games. Thank the gods they made no real wagers, neither of them having coin to spare. Instead, they used the walnut husks to keep track of who was winning. The friendly cook was only too happy to give him scraps when he came begging at the kitchen door (and often a kiss as well,) but the husks stained their fingers and everything they touched brown. An unfortunate side effect of living cheaply, he supposed.

His new friend had sent him off after the third game, pockets full of walnuts and mouth full of justifications about needing an early night. _More like he wants to quit while he’s winning,_ he thought, but the excuse suited Podrick just fine. His efforts to charm mousy Lady Cerwyn had ended when she pronounced him unforgiveably immature, but a very promising young lady of House Woolfield had just arrived at Winterfell, and they had arranged to meet for a “stroll” after dinner. _Maybe I ought to clean my hands first,_ he thought with a glance down at his stained palms.

But he considered scrapping the idea entirely at the first glimpse of Tyrion’s sturdy little frame in the yard. The fox fur around his shoulders and scarf about his ears told Podrick he was making ready to leave the castle. A cart was being loaded behind him. _Where is he going at this hour?_ The Queen ran her Hand off his feet most days, and when he was allowed a moment of leisure, Podrick was usually training the highborn ladies at arms, or busy with some errand for Sansa. They’d been trying to get together for a drink and a talk for ages. He wondered if this little sojourn in the gathering dark was just an excuse to get away from Daenerys and her projects for a little while.

“Tyrion!” he called to his old master. Was that a look of relief on his face, or was he imagining it? “Could it be that we are both free this evening?”

“Free? For you, Podrick? Always.” Tyrion turned away from the cart that was being readied for his use to fix him with his full attention. The easy benevolence Tyrion had always shown him in King’s Landing was still present in his smile, but something was different about him now… he’d noticed at the Dragonpit, too, but they’d hardly had a moment free to spend together since. Was it the black he now wore head-to-toe, in honor of his Queen’s house? Was it washing him out? “I did not mark your coming. You’ve gotten better at moving in stealth. Has your Lady Sansa set you to tailing me? I must warn you, I’m very good at getting away.”

“No, my lord.” _He’s switched to “Lady Sansa” again instead of “my wife,”_ he thought, and filed it away to think about later. “I mean, Sansa hasn’t asked me to do anything. I’m just killing time until… well… a meeting with a lady.”

Tyrion raised a single eyebrow. “Color me impressed. Somehow I have managed to rub off on you even from afar.” With a grunt of effort, Tyrion heaved himself into the cart. Mud flew from his boots and spattered Podrick’s knees. “But I’m afraid there are no women waiting for a visit from me this evening. I’ve sworn off brothels, did you know?”

“Your wife, my lord?” He knew Sansa and Tyrion had been spending more time together of late, but if anything more than polite conversation had happened between them, they hid it very well.

“My wife never frequented brothels, to my knowledge.”

“Ah—my lord??”

“I see you are still unfamiliar with the concept of humor. _That,_ at least, has not changed.” Tyrion made himself comfortable in his cart, atop a pile of what he assumed to be straw and sacking covered with a neat woolen blanket. A book and a skin of wine had been tucked into one corner. “Since you are not otherwise engaged, you will come with me to visit dragons.”

“Er… what?!” That was surely a jape. Right?

“The _dragons_ , Podrick,” intoned Tyrion with a spectacular eye-roll. “You know, big, scaly creatures with wings. Known to breathe fire from time to time.”

“I—I’m familiar,” he admitted, furrowing his brow. “But why do they need visiting??” His back broke out in a cold sweat.

Tyrion adjusted the fox fur hanging about his shoulders. “For all their fearsomeness, dragons are no more complicated than any other animal. They tend to be behave better if they are content, well-fed, and above all, entertained.”

And Tyrion was nothing if not entertaining, he had to admit, but somehow Podrick didn’t think the dragons would be amused by pithy comments. “What will we, ah, do?” His palms began to sweat, too. Without thinking he tried to wipe them on his armor, but that just made it shiny.

“Bring them a snack. They are smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds them... unlike a certain sister of mine.”

“They won’t think _we_ are the snacks?” It was meant to sound sporting, but Podrick’s voice came out small and sheepish. 

“They know me,” Tyrion smirked. “And are accustomed to morsels rather larger than I. You, on the other hand…”

The patch of land that Drogon and Rhaegal had made their own lay a league beyond the North Gate. With Tyrion in the cart, complaining about the jostling and spilling wine at every lurch, it was slow going. Just as well, for he didn’t feel ready to face Drogon and Rhaegal yet, no matter how curious he may be. It was one thing to watch them from afar with the Queen at hand to control them, quite another to ride up and start poking at them while they fed. Only his friend’s self-assuredness kept him from turning tail and galloping back to Winterfell, and just barely. _Tyrion isn’t stupid,_ the more rational part of his mind argued, _he won’t lead you into danger._ But he couldn’t shake the joke about him being closer to the size of their usual prey…

It was a clear day, and Drogon marked them coming with ease. He let out a roar that shook the cart’s foundations. A bolt of pure terror shot through Podrick when the dragon first turned its molten metal eyes on them, sniffing the air. S _melling us,_ he thought. His stomach swooped. Did he smell as good to Drogon as a cut of roast pork did to him? After training with Lady Cerwyn that morning, he must be very ripe. _I should bathe more often,_ he thought to himself, _if I don’t end the day in Drogon’s belly, that is._ Instinct told him to keep making low, steady noise, lest Drogon think they were stalking him. “So,” he blurted, addressing his horse’s neck instead of the dwarf reclining in the back. “How do you keep the dragons from eating you on sight? I mean, I know they know _you_ ,” he babbled, “but not me, and I could hardly be more visible, all in red like I am…” He trailed off. “And I think they must smell me.”

A gurgling sound from behind and below was his reward; Tyrion had choked on his wine, laughing. “Pod, I have missed you,” said Tyrion, chuckling into his cup. “Nothing in nature is as red as that armor you wear. You could come dressed in Moon Boy’s motley and they’d pay you no mind. No, you’ll be safe so long as you don’t provoke them, or make Daenerys your enemy, or dress as a particularly tasty sheep. And they don’t smell you, they smell _this_.” He whipped back a corner of the wool blanket—which now looked a deal wetter and filthier than Podrick remembered—to reveal that he was riding atop a pile of bloody meat, just starting to frost around the edges.

Reluctantly, he felt the corners of his mouth beginning to curl. “You _do_ mean to bring them a snack! I thought you were japing, my lord, you musn’t tease me like that.”

Tyrion shrugged. “They can get enough for themselves, now that the lands from Winterfell to the wall are their hunting grounds. But Rhaegal in particular has developed a taste for deer, which are harder for him to get, keeping to the woods as they do. A regular delivery of delicacies keeps them returning to this spot. I can be tamed using similar methods.”

“I wondered about that. The dragons, I mean, not you.” There was no pen or fence around the dragons— _not that it would make much sense_ —and they weren’t tethered, as far as he could tell. He only knew that he hadn’t seen them over the castle since the day of their arrival at Winterfell. “Her Grace can’t call to them, like Jon can with Ghost?” If it weren’t for his nerves he could almost enjoy this, Tyrion dispensing wisdom while he went about his work. It was like being in King’s Landing when he had first served as a squire. Not that he wanted to go back to that. Brienne was a harsher but more worthy mistress.

“She exerts some control over Drogon, and he keeps Rhaegal in line. Besides, both of them know the people they grew up with—Missandei, Jorah, Grey Worm, the _khalasar_ … me.”

“They won’t think I am a threat?”

More chuckling. “Do _you_ think you are a threat? You’re too big to be dinner and too small to scare them. And you needn’t worry about how you smell, unless you are planning an evening with a lady when we are finished, and I hope for your sake that you are. Gendry smells worse than you, and since I just saw him at his forge, I assume they did not take chunks out of him.”

Now that was curious. His friend hadn’t mentioned anything unusual over their games of dice. “Gendry’s seen the dragons?” They were close enough now that Podrick’s garron was frothing and shying away in fear, though the dutiful animal did its damnedest to keep plodding forward. _Poor beast,_ he thought, rubbing its neck, _I hope you’re not part of the meal._

“Daenerys brought him last week when she visited them. I have spent more than one hour wondering what she said to him on the journey, I have to confess.” Tyrion drained the last of his cup, smacking his lips. “Your mount is going to bolt if you don’t stop him soon. Dismount and come help me up, if you would. For old times’ sake.”

That was fine with him, just fine. He could certainly sympathize with the poor animal, dragged into danger against its will by something more powerful than itself. The faithful creature frothed and stamped while he helped Tyrion get his legs under him, and again as Pod unhooked him from the cart, and together they led the frightened mount to the safety of the nearby treeline. As soon as the three of them cleared the area, Tyrion gave a whistle and the dragons descended on the abandoned cart, ripping and tearing the bleeding meat asunder, throwing chunks of flaming deer high into the air in their feeding frenzy. _Just like dogs,_ he thought, and shivered. But it was clear now that Rhaegal and Drogon had no thoughts to spare for two armor-encrusted, stringy things like Tyrion and himself. The relief surging through his body was almost painful. 

“Why did Daenerys bring Gendry out here with her, do you think?” he asked Tyrion as they watched the distant dragons rooting their snouts through the wagon. He didn’t look forward to driving it all the way back, now.

His old master gave him a long, appraising look that brought back a hint of the calculating Tyrion he remembered. “The queen has not forbidden me to mention it, but still, I wonder…” Some complicated figuring took place in his mind while Podrick secured their horse. For his part, he didn’t really want to know anything that the Queen had not expressly asked to be shared. Not if he was expected to help feed the dragons. “I think you can be trusted, if anyone can,” he said after a long moment. “You didn’t testify against me at my trial, even when offered gold, a knighthood... That counts for something.”

“If Her Grace doesn’t want—”

“You see,” Tyrion said over his protests, “Daenerys has begun to wonder if there is someone else who can control Rhaegal—another dragon rider.”

He gaped. “But—only Targaryens can ride dragons..?” he answered feebly. He’d learned that as a boy in the Westerlands, pining after dragons like a lost love. 

“Correction. Only those with Targaryen _blood_ can ride dragons. Gendry has Targaryen blood.”

“How?!” He’d never seen anyone that looked _less_ like a Targaryen. The Queen’s family had bright silver curls, purple eyes, otherworldly beauty. Gendry, with his dark hair and strong features, resembled the rugged people of the Stormlands, more like Renly or Robert… _oh._ He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. He silently thanked the Seven, not for the first time, that Brienne was in charge and he was not. “Is… is he related to the Baratheons?”

“Robert’s bastard. One of them, anyway, which makes him one-eighth Targaryen, and more closely related to our Queen than anyone else living. I hear there is another bastard girl in the Vale as well, but…” He sighed. “Daenerys had hopes. The dragons liked the look of him, too, but no more than they like Missandei or Jorah. No dragonseed, our Gendry.”

Podrick tried to picture his new friend on Rhaegal’s back, but couldn’t reconcile the scowling, soot-stained blacksmith with the fantastic creature before them. Just as well, if the dragon hadn’t taken to him. “Was she upset?”

“A little, maybe. More relieved. As much of an asset as another dragon rider would be, no one wants their child to bond with another. And there’s always the chance another dragon rider would challenge her, though I don’t think we have to worry about that from Gendry.” They watched Rhaegal, nearly done feeding now, cracking the bones to get at the insides. “You know,” Tyrion continued in a lower voice, “Your Brienne is a distant relative of hers, too. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s asked to take a little stroll out here with the Queen, in time. I’d say it would’ve happened already if she weren’t so close to Sansa.”

Yes… yes, one of Brienne’s ancestors was a Targaryen, he remembered now. He’d been aware of it in the same distant way he was aware of Lannisters in his own family tree; an interesting footnote, no more. Now, though… An image of Brienne atop Rhaegal, wielding Oathkeeper, the winter wind rippling her bright hair, came to him as strong as the smell of blood from the abandoned wagon. A stirring thought.

Podrick realized too late that his face was an open book. “I know what you are thinking,” Tyrion started, “But Brienne does not strike me as someone who desires power. I’m not certain she can be convinced of sense. My brother tells me she is difficult to reason with.”

“Your brother is not the reasonable one in that relationship,” Podrick argued, but his mind was elsewhere. A wealth of possibilities was glittering before him like so many coins. With another dragon rider on her side, Daenerys could make a quicker end of the remaining wights, a necessary step towards defeating the Others, and Cersei would fear them all the more after. House Tarth’s good reputation in the South could help sway the Storm Lords to the Targaryen cause as well. And in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded like Sansa’s murmured, _another dragon rider will check the queen’s power._ “Might I ask Brienne to accompany us next time?”

“NO,” Tyrion barked, the sound ringing across the rolling plains. In the distance, Drogon raised his horned head to peer at them in suspicion. They held their collective breath, Podrick’s pulse beating in his ears, until he turned back to his meal again. “I ask you not to mention this conversation to anyone, in fact,” Tyrion hissed when he got his breath back. From Podrick’s vantage point he could see the trembles shaking his friend’s small frame. “Forget I said anything about it. If word gets out that Daenerys is seeking dragonseeds, every man whose ancestor went anywhere near Dragonstone will be tramping out here and getting themselves killed.”

There was some sense in that… _but Brienne deserves to know,_ one half of himself argued. _The Queen will speak with her soon enough,_ the other half reasoned.

His inner struggle meant nothing to Tyrion, who was watching, rapt, as the dragons polished off the end of their “snack.” Rhaegal let out a sniffle of flame and rose near-silently into the air, wind whistling through a tear in his wing. _Brienne will react better if this idea isn’t sprung on her. But Tyrion asked me not to tell…_ “You can count on me,” Podrick promised.

_…but I’m not his squire anymore._

Brienne was easy to find. Most evenings were spent alone in her chambers, if Sansa had no need of her, and it was there he found her now, sitting before the fire with only duty for company. In the moonlight her hair shone silver like the queen’s. Stars winked in the night sky outside her window. Oathkeeper, cradled lovingly in her large hands, was a weapon to suit a queen. Was it so strange to think she had come from the same line as Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya? For a moment he watched her, in her element, doing what she loved best. _A shame to disturb her, really,_ he thought, but then that was why he’d come. “My lady,” he said softly, “Can I join you?”

She agreed, but her sharp upward glance told him to tread carefully—disturbances could make her irritable. Like a cat, she had to warm up to you before you could make any sudden movements. A pity a cat wasn’t her sigil… for now, at least.

In time she finished tending Oathkeeper and tucked it away, reverently, to move on to her helm. That was less loved, so attention for Podrick could be spared. “What brings you to this end of the castle?” she frowned by way of greeting.

Winterfell was so packed with visitors of late that the Starks had to bend tradition to take advantage of their missing siblings’ rooms. It was not just the children of Ned and Catelyn who slept in the Great Keep anymore. Brienne was in Sansa’s old chambers, Sansa having moved on to the largest room, formerly occupied by Robb. And she wasn’t the only one; Alys Karstark was crammed into Rickon’s childhood room, and there had been talk of moving Lady Mormont into Jon’s. But even with the new occupants, it was rare to see a Southron face in this tower.

“I had a question for you, if you don’t mind,” said Podrick. No point in delaying his errand. “Has the Queen taken you to meet the dragons?”

The helm came down and he could see Brienne’s quizzical expression. “She has not.”

“Any odd requests? Questions about your family?”

Now she set it down. “Is this a fact-finding mission for Tyrion?” she asked, accusation flavoring her voice.

“No! I would never.” Her tone stung. “I wouldn’t question you on his behalf… without telling you about it, at least.”

The resulting “hmmph,” which passed for a laugh where Brienne was concerned, soothed his hurt feelings a touch. She’d gotten much better about apologizing, but it still wasn’t her strong suit. “Then I must ask why you find cleaning my armor so interesting. You didn’t mind it as much as many squires do, I remember, but surely there is a woman of easy virtue and fair face that you could be spending time with instead?”

He had long since forgotten all about his walk with Lady Woolfield. Oh well, she had been blonde anyway. Not his type. “They get boring after a while.” Podrick blushed. “I wanted to tell you before you hear it from… other sources.”

“If Sansa asked you not to share—”

“Not her, just—listen.” Rare as it was for him to get frustrated, the tangled web of alliances he’d made was tugging him in too many directions at once. Tyrion, Brienne, and Sansa often worked at cross-purposes. It crossed his mind that he might, at some point, need to draw the line with each of them, but the thought just made him sweat. “The Queen is looking for a rider for Rhaegal. She’s already after Gendry about it, but he didn’t suit. Who better to turn to than you?”

“Why me?” she intoned, with maddening patience. “I’m sworn to the Lady Sansa. I’m sure you have noticed they do not get along.”

“They don’t get along _yet_ ,” he corrected. “And Sansa would be just as pleased for you, or anyone, to claim a dragon. We’ve seen how effective they are against the wights.” Winterfell was still celebrating Daenerys’ ill-fated voyage to Deepwood Motte, something that reportedly distressed and pleased the Queen in equal measure. “As your squire, my word might not be worth much, but I beg you to at least consider it.” Podrick took a pause to choose his words. “Think of it, my lady. You’d do your house proud.”

“I find that unlikely.”

“The dragon riding, or the pride?”

“Either. Both.”

_We are talking in circles._ He began to see why she and Jaime bickered so. Brienne couldn’t take a compliment to save her life. Despairing, he shot back, “Why is that so difficult to believe? Velaryons and Targaryen bastards have made names for themselves on the strength of that bond, and you already _have_ a name. You beat the Hound in single combat and fought a Kingsguard to a stalemate! You were part of Lord Renly’s Rainbow Guard! My lady, who is more qualified to claim a dragon than you?”

Brienne’s helm clanged to the floor. _Now I’ve done it._ Podrick steeled himself for a reprimand. She wouldn’t set aside her work unless truly riled. “If it boils down to blood, many throughout the Seven Kingdoms are equally qualified. Various smallfolk around Dragonstone, Plumms and Penroses and Masseys, and who’s to say Duncan and Jenny have no descendants? Even that peculiar Arryn boy has a bit of dragon in him.” Her bright eyes, almost as vivid as Daenerys’, flashed dangerously.

“But—”

It was the soft knock at the door that stilled Brienne’s tirade, rather than his feeble excuses. “Enter,” she called, not disguising her irritation, and Sansa’s gleaming red head poked itself around the edge of the door.

“Oh good, it’s just you, Pod,” she sighed. “I heard raised voices. I hoped I wasn’t intruding on one of Brienne and Ser Jaime’s… conversations.” Behind him, he was certain Brienne was turning pink. “Come. Stark family meeting.”

Sansa bolted straight up the staircase to what he knew was Bran’s room, apparently feeling no further explanation was necessary. Had he missed something? “Um… Stark family meeting, my lady?” he dared to ask. “Why do you need us?”

“That’s the question of the hour,” she muttered. Her fingers clenched her skirts tight, lifting the hem of her gown to accommodate her fast, angry steps. “Bran called a meeting for the four of us, but when I arrived, I discovered that House Stark now includes Daenerys, Tyrion, and Ser Davos as well.” Her breath was coming in fast, hard puffs. Unless she calmed her temper she would wear herself out by the time they reached Bran’s room.

“If it’s something important, my lady, maybe Jon and the queen will want their Hands present,” he suggested.

“They said much the same,” Sansa mused. They reached the top as she spoke this last, red-faced and panting. The rapid climb had brought out beads of sweat on her brow. Brienne shot him a quick look. He made a show of adjusting his armor, and she of smoothing her hair, but the delay was really for Sansa’s benefit; she would have no desire to go into a mysterious meeting at a disadvantage, and her heavy breathing certainly qualified as that. Whatever was in store for them behind Bran’s heavy oak door, it could wait until Sansa’s color returned to normal.

Six pairs of eyes watched him beadily as Podrick pushed the door open. He’d come prepared for a raging fight, a calm recitation of recent atrocities in the South, a long-winded digression from Tyrion, anything but the subdued gathering before them. In fact, everyone appeared to have been sitting in silence. Far from being pleased at their courtesy, Sansa’s face twitched in confusion for one brief moment before smoothing out into its normal expression of readiness. “I trust the wait wasn’t too much of an inconvenience,” she said with an air of studied calm.

“Bran wouldn’t begin until we were all here. Sansa, I don’t know why you insist on your sworn swords being present—meaning no offense, Brienne, Podrick.” Jon nodded at them both. “No one here is likely to attack you, are they??”

“You have your advisor at your side, and Her Grace has hers,” Sansa answered pertly. “Why shouldn’t Brienne be here for me? Podrick happened to be visiting with her already, but this won’t take long, I hope?” She fixed each of them with a hard stare in their turn. “Good.”

“I’ll keep it short.” Bran was behind the same desk he used to draft his letters, hands folded, looking… _almost_ present. _It must be one of his good days._ “We’ve lately had more important concerns, so I have kept the information to myself until I was certain it would come to pass, but the time has come to share it with you.” Even without looking at her, he knew Sansa’s eyes had narrowed. She did not like being kept in the dark. “In one week’s time, Ladies Talla and Melessa Tarly and Ser Colin Florent will be arriving from the South—yes, Sam’s sister and mother,” he explained at his brother’s look of surprise. “Cersei’s terms for making the Tarlys the new Lords Paramount did not go down easily. It hasn’t yet been publicly announced, but she expects Talla to make a very unfavorable marriage as a ‘minor favor’ to her in exchange for the appointment.” Expressions of disgust went around the room. “Unfortunately for Cersei, Talla got wind of it and fled before marrying the man intended for her, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater—”

Tyrion choked. “My sister did _what??_ ”

Davos hmm’d. “That’s an interesting strategy, to be sure.”

“But why here—”

“I’m sorry, _who_ is this?”

“What about Sam?”

Bran quieted them all with a raised hand. “Enough. Melessa never agreed with her lord husband’s decision to support the Lannisters against our queen, and to see her little girl wed to a Lannister crony was a step too far for even her accommodating nature. She has brought Talla north to seek a different husband—me,” he said with a trace of a smile. “I understand they intend to take Little Sam back with them, as the new Lord of Horn Hill—”

But he could not get any more words in over the din his siblings were raising. It was a funny moment to notice it, Podrick thought, but there was a strong resemblance between Sansa and Arya when they were both fuming. And Jon… well, he was always brooding, but now even more so. “You can’t!” Arya protested through clenched teeth. “What about Meera?”

“What about your _bannermen_? They won’t want to see the King in the North’s heir wed to a girl from thousands of leagues away when you could have Wylla Manderly, or, or cousin Alys, or yes, Meera—even _Jonelle_ would be a better choice—” Sansa had gone red-faced again with ire.

“Do you _want_ to get married, Bran?” broke in Jon, brow furrowed. “You’ve never spoken of this, and you’re not yet twenty. There’s lots of time yet.”

On another person, Bran’s shrug might’ve looked carefree. “We all must, and House Tarly is a good ally to have in winter. They are still harvesting in the Dornish Marches. A marriage is a small price to pay for food through the winter.”

No one had an argument for that. Already he could see Sansa reconsidering the proposal from that angle.

Davos coughed. “From a practical standpoint, it might be important to confirm with these ladies if they are expecting children from this union.”

It was a horrendous topic to discuss in a roomful of people, whether or not he could complete the marital act, and whether it would result in anything if he did; but Bran bore the scrutiny with grace. “We’ll be frank about the situation before anything is negotiated. Maester Luwin examined me after my fall and was of the opinion that I could not have heirs, but who knows?” Podrick focused on Brienne’s elbow, not wanting to see Bran’s habitual discomfiting smile. “It would be a gamble for any bride, certainly. But if she had better choices, I doubt she’d have come all this way.”

Sansa had bitten her tongue too long. “And you would go live in the Reach, would you? Just when we’ve all come back together again?”

“Didn’t you once envision the same life for yourself, sister?” Bran sounded bored with the argument, as if they’d had it before. “I have seen futures where I have a very nice life at Horn Hill. I have also seen futures where I am dead. I hope you would prefer the former.”

“But…” Arya looked as helpless as Podrick had ever seen her. “What about Meera?”

“Meera has made it quite clear she won’t have me.” Bran’s voice rose for the first time. The controlled façade had cracked. He sounded like the teenager he was, for once. “And I don’t object to wedding Talla. Everything I have seen of her suggests a fine lady and a good wife.”

“Seeing someone in a vision and meeting her in person are two different things, Bran,” Jon sighed. He took his own wife’s hand. “Are you sure this is what you want? I won’t force you into a marriage you don’t want— _any_ of you,” he stressed, including his sisters in his gaze. “A fraught marriage cannot produce a peaceful kingdom.”

“Well said,” his wife murmured. “Brandon, we will not stop you from doing as you wish. You have our permission to marry Lady Tarly. But,” she continued, seeing the furious looks from all three of Bran’s siblings, “This cannot be taken back. An annulment, or… other romantic entanglements would further damage our position in the Reach, and I strongly suspect Lady Talla has fled to the North because this is the only place in Westeros beyond Cersei’s reach. Such an opportunity must be handled carefully. Please, think about what you are doing before you promise her anything.”

Jon was still scowling. _He’d be pacing if the room was bigger._ “We ought to ask Sam what he thinks,” he decided, stalling until he thought of another reasonable objection. “I don’t like discussing his sister’s future without him here. Does he even know about this, Bran?”

“Not yet. Tell him after, if you want. He won’t be too happy about it, but nor will he push his mother if this is what she decides.”

As Jon stomped off to do just that, the non-Starks offered Bran awkward congratulations on his upcoming nuptials, Arya and Sansa too busy glowering to join in. Personally, he wasn’t sure what they were so upset about. Weren’t they pleased their brother had found someone? And wasn’t it better to choose your own wife than to be assigned someone you might hate? There was nothing wrong with the other girls Sansa had suggested, but Meera Reed and Jonelle Cerwyn couldn’t bring the North anything it did not already have. He remembered Talla Tarly from King’s Landing, always happily ensconced in Margaery’s entourage. A sweet girl, if a little scatterbrained; but someone like that might be good for Bran.

Really, he found Tyrion’s silence throughout the meeting much more shocking than Bran’s surprise betrothal. Just as he left, he caught the other man studying him in a curious way he had not done before. _Can he know that I told Brienne about Rhaegal??_ he thought with sudden shock. Sansa’s appearance at Brienne’s door and the events that followed had driven thoughts of dragons from his mind, but the way Tyrion was looking at him… was he frowning, or just thinking hard?

_It’s the beard!!_ That’s why he seemed so different of late. He’d always been clean-shaven when Podrick squired for him. Of course in the North, a beard was almost a necessity; only men who couldn’t grow a proper one, like Bran, went without. But it covered Tyrion’s mouth, making his wily friend even hader to read than before. _Maybe I should grow one, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this was almost as difficult to write as Jorah I. I'd say I'm just bad at writing dudes, but Edd and Qyburn come easily to me! I hope that is no reflection of me as a person.  
> A note about Brienne's family. GRRM has confirmed that she is a descendent of Dunk, and we know she has fairly recent Targaryen ancestry as well. Just how recent is unclear, but due to Dunk's connection to the Targaryens it's a fair assumption that Brienne's Targ ancestry comes from either Daella or Rhae, Egg's sisters. For the purposes of this story, I'm going with the theory that one of them married into the Tarth family, and the other married an Arryn.  
> Next chapter, we'll hear a bit more about how Bran's potential bride, Talla, is handling all this wedding business. Don't despair, Bran/Meera shippers 😉


	22. Talla II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talla, Melessa, and Colin arrive in Barrowton.

A lady of the Reach could not expect to remain in her childhood home her whole life, not if she was lucky. In her fifteenth or sixteenth year (or twenty-eighth, but who was counting) she would leave her girlish self behind and be born anew in the halls of her husband. Margaery had entered the Great Sept of Baelor in splendor, crowds of cheering smallfolk throwing rose petals to cushion her dainty feet. Her friend Leonette Fossoway came to Highgarden with less pomp—Talla had been in attendance for that wedding—but she was no less loved for it. The Tyrells hired a dozen musicians to play for her, and rolled out a golden carpet from her maiden’s chambers to the sept where her wedding to Ser Garlan was solemnized. Talla had not liked her old betrothed, Symun Fossoway, very much, but she had nonetheless daydreamed about her entrance at Cider Hall. She thought the smallfolk might throw apple blossoms rather than rose petals.

In contrast, her first contact with the North that would be her home was to pitch headfirst out of the skiff onto the iron-hard shore of the Saltspear. The night was black as pitch, without a star, and she missed her footing. Frozen grasses and sharp rock stung and bit her palms, and though she could not confirm it in the dark, she suspected she was bleeding. To add insult to injury, the guard the Watermans had sent to guide them only laughed at her cry of dismay.

“Oh, _that’s_ nice,” she hissed after getting to her feet. “Is this how you treat a lady in the North?” Perhaps it was her ego speaking, but Talla thought her reception left something to be desired. _I’m to marry Lord Brandon, son of your beloved Ned Stark,_ she fumed silently. This man didn’t know that, of course, but why else would a lady bred in the Dornish Marches come to this frozen wasteland if not for a betrothal? In any case, no woman should be treated with such discourtesy. Gilly had not mentioned that men of the North were so ill mannered.

“Begging your pardon, but ‘twas a sight, milady—Norcross, is it?” The Watermans’ guard chuckled in complete disregard for her distress. “You’ve not much experience with watercraft, I’ll wager.”

“No I have not,” she huffed. “Just pleasure barges.” Since leaving Oldtown, she and her mother had been traveling under the names of Florys and Delena Norcross, Colin’s granddaughter and daughter. If Colin was a quieter man, they might’ve passed as a merchant family instead; but he was too well known in the Westerlands, and Mother did not trust him to stay aboard the _Fair Wynafryd_ for the four days they were docked in Lannisport. The alter ego Talla had adopted for the trip, Florys Norcross, would have lived her life at Brightwater Keep. She would have had no more experience of seafaring than Talla.

The guard cackled. “We’ve no pleasure barges in the North, you’ll find. Hope it won’t put milady out.”

“No more than your manners.”

He seemed to enjoy that. “She’s quick, this one! Lord Waterman will be pleased to meet you, his daughters plague him so with complaints and other drudgery. What brings you north, milady?”

“A betrothal,” she said shortly. _Let him wonder who the lucky man is._

“I wish you joy of it. May your home be blessed with many children and a warm hearth.” _May it be blessed with warmth, and forget the other part,_ she thought, shuddering.

The guard left her stewing and checking her wounds to help Mother, who disembarked with more grace. Perhaps it was a skill left over from her long-ago time at Lord Manderly’s court. She still could not believe her own mother had almost married a Northern lord. Was that why she urged Talla to accept Brandon Stark? So she could live the wild, exotic Northern life Mother had missed out on? Well, she’d have to now, for Talla had no desire to get back on a boat again. The _Fair Wynafryd_ that carried them from Oldtown suited her at first, towering over the other cogs and merchant ships in port, looking most impressive. Their rented cabins were tinier even than the rooms at the Yellow Rose, but clean and snug and devoid of fleas, and her spirits soared those first few days. Florys’ personality was three parts Margaery Tyrell and one part cousin Lynesse, she decided, nothing like awkward Talla Tarly at all. She cheered and danced with the ship left port, and flirted with the sailors, and had snappy rejoinders to Uncle Colin’s stories, doing just as she pleased without worrying about her reputation. Even the ship’s creaking and groaning had been charming for a few days. Then a storm kicked up off the coast of Lannisport and she’d been trapped belowdecks tending Uncle Colin, who seemed to share Sam’s propensity for violent seasickness. After that she never wanted to hear groaning of any kind again, human or ship. The storms continued as they passed the Crag and docked at Lordsport, and she missed seeing her first snowfall because Mother forbid her to go up on deck with Ironborn about. Talla had spent as much time as possible on deck after they left Pyke, hoping for another glimpse of snow, but she had been disappointed. The glittering cliffs of Cape Kraken were covered with the stuff when they passed, but no more fell from the sky.

She thought that the _Wynafryd_ ’s captain had forgotten all about them until he put them ashore in the middle of the night at the place where the Saltspear met its tributary, the Howling River. Mother’s indignant complaints were met with a shrug and silence. Thank the gods Uncle Colin had the foresight to poach five “guides” from among the _Wynafryd_ ’s crew, men who hailed from White Harbor and the Sisters, to take them to the Water Tower and Barrowton and, finally, Winterfell. _If the captain finds himself short-handed on the journey south, perhaps he should’ve treated us more gently!,_ she thought, and turned up her nose.

There were ten in their party, her and Mother and Uncle Colin, two Waterman guards, and their five escorts who apparently preferred the uncertain future of the North to further service on the _Fair Wynafryd_. Provisions were distributed, the horses saddled, and five of the eight men elected to take a quick piss into the Saltspear before setting off. Then one of the sailors admitted he’d never ridden a horse before, and it was another twenty minutes’ delay while he was taught to handle his mount. Through it all Talla stood shivering on the riverbank, staring mournfully after the _Wynafryd_ ’s retreating husk. For one wild moment she wondered if the captain would stop to pick her up again if she ran after it. An hour ago she’d been tucked away in her bunk, listening to the creak of the deck and the shouts of seamen. She’d been deliciously warm and sleepy, and as small as it was, her bed was her own. _It is not that I do not want to marry Brandon,_ she thought, pulling her brother Dickon’s cloak more tightly around herself. _He is young! He is comely! Father did not choose him!_ All good points. She was sure her intended would be a kind man and a good husband. Their children (if they had any) would want for nothing. Her sons would inherit Horn Hill if Sam refused to let his bastard come south; and, well, Brandon was heir to the King in the North. It was not out of the question that she would be mother to a king. _But I do not want those things,_ a small voice inside her carped, and her stomach squirmed.

The Howling River proved worthy of its name. Dickon’s cloak, fitted for the milder temperatures of the Reach, had no hood, and Talla’s cheeks smarted with cold before they had picked themselves a quarter of the way along the path to the Water Tower. A sliver of moon hung in the sky above them. _Why couldn’t we wait until daylight,_ she thought, despondent, as she warmed her face against the neck of her garron. _In daylight I could look over the hills, and watch the snow fall, and the sun would take the worst of the chill off the wind._ All she could see by night was the back of Mother’s cloak as she rode before her. The steady wind flung snow into her eyes until she wept icy tears. This was nothing like what Uncle Colin had led her to expect, gentle flakes circling down from the heavens. This snow stung like sand. An especially strong blast drove snow up her nose, and she nearly fell off her garron in all the coughing and sniffling that followed. Later, a violent gust seized her hat and carried it out of sight before she could do more than gasp. _Margaery gave me that,_ she thought desperately, and this time the tears on her cheeks were real. Once she started crying she found she could not stop. The North was miserable, and so too was she.

In this fashion, weeping silently into her garron’s mane, she arrived at the Water Tower.

Lord and Lady Waterman did not come down to the gate. “Abed,” was the curt reply when Uncle Colin inquired after their whereabouts. Instead they were greeted by the steward, a potbellied man with cheeks as round and pink as a pig’s, a completely bald head, and an easy smile. His partially untucked shirt indicated he may have been abed as well.

If Mother noted the discourtesy, she did not see fit to mention it. “Our late arrival has inconvenienced you, I see,” she shouted at the steward over the roar of the wind. _Did not the captain send a raven ahead?_ That would just be the drizzle on the lemon cake after the night they’d had. “Pray don’t think the worse of us for it. We were just put ashore rather unceremoniously…”

The steward was nodding before Mother had finished her sentence. “Men out of Dorne and the Reach don’t think nothing of riding at night, so they assume it won’t bother no one else, neither. Don’t understand that above the Trident, sunlight can be the difference between life and death. We are eternally asking them to wait and put their passengers ashore after sunrise, but it don’t make them any more money, so they heave off and never mind the passengers.” He bustled them across the black and silent yard and into the tower proper, a gloomy stone holdfast that smelled of smoke and soiled rushes. Still, there was no snow inside, and that was all Talla cared about for the nonce. She felt the earlier weepiness lift from her like a blanket.

“We are so grateful for your hospitality, Ser,” she said, and offered him her cloak. “I fear we were not prepared for a night in the open.”

“Not many ‘ser’s in the North, my lady,” he explained with the indulgent patience usually reserved for children or simpletons. “You may call me Tuttle. Benemy Tuttle.”

“Well, we thank you, Tuttle.” There was less courtesy in her tone than he might deserve, but not none. She was too cold for fighting.

The hearth blazed, for all everyone had been asleep, and their family took refuge closest to the fire while their five companions from the ship sat down at the long tables where the Waterman’s household took their meals. The steward’s wife, a reedy woman with nervous eyes, soon brought forth a platter laden with skewers of juicy beef, onion, and squash, and a round of steaming mugs of mulled wine on a silver tray. All of them wolfed it down, even Mother, and Colin called for more. Thankfully, the steward’s wife seemed well pleased with their reactions, and returned quick as a flash with a second helping. A hue and cry of approval went up from among their fellow travelers.

Blushing, she settled down next to Mother with only a heel of bread to nibble on herself. “We often get travelers here at the Water Tower, but rarely ones so distinguished as yourselves—that’s the Florent sigil on your shoulder, isn’t it?” Uncle Colin beamed at the unexpected recognition. “If we’d known to expect people of quality, I’m sure the Lord and Lady would’ve greeted you themselves.”

“No matter,” said Mother with a gracious smile. “It’s so late. I know I wouldn’t want to be roused from my bed for any reason when it’s this cold.”

Tuttle waved an impatient hand. “Oh, this night’s no colder than any other.” _It isn’t??_ Talla thought with horror. She had hoped the chill was indicative of another storm brewing, not the usual temperature for this season. “But while we’re on the subject, Lady..?”

“Norcross. Delena Norcross.” Mother did not flinch at the lie. “And this is my daughter, Florys, and my father Colin.”

Greetings then had to be exchanged before Tuttle got to the point. “You’ll have a few days’ spell of good weather if you’re planning to travel further—and I imagine you are, as we weren’t expecting you,” he cracked. “The three of you should be well ensconced at Barrowton before the snows come again. Unless you’re making for White Harbor?”

“Barrowton will serve.” Uncle Colin was already deep into the wine. “For now.”

Talla and her mother exchanged a look. They had already decided to say as little about their intentions as possible, but Uncle Colin had a tendency to think anyone who offered him drink was his new best friend. He’d spill details of their errand to Tuttle within minutes if he wasn’t stopped. “But while we’re becalmed here for the moment,” said Mother deliberately, eyes still on Talla, “What is the news? We’ve not been ashore in weeks. With how fast things are changing these days, I fear we’ve missed much and more at sea.”

The steward resettled himself to share the news, such as it was. “King Jon’s taken a wife,” he explained comfortably, gnawing on a skewer. “He and the Mad King’s daughter were wed at White Harbor, some… oh, two or three moons ago, now.” He burped richly, and his wife covered her own mouth. “He must want those dragons. That, and she’s said to be beautiful, which sweetens the pot, don’t it? Still, I’d have preferred him to choose a Northerner, since Ned and Robb did not… Alys Karstark, maybe, or the little Mormont girl, in a few years…” He trailed off, thoughtful.

Talla decided at once not to admit to her real identity, or her purported engagement to Brandon, until they reached Winterfell. If Catelyn Tully was too much a Southron for this man, well… “Perhaps it was a love match,” she suggested. 

“Might be,” he allowed, squinting. “Can’t fault the man for that. My own Cynthia was not my father’s first choice for me, but we proved him wrong in the end, didn’t we Cindy?” Here he cuffed his wife playfully on the shoulder. She tittered nervously, but her cheeks went pink and her shoulders relaxed a trifle.

Mother was watching them with a curious expression of mixed sympathy and longing. “Do the two of you have children?”

“No, we were never blessed.” But Cynthia did not seem troubled by it. She refilled Talla’s mug of wine, and Colin’s. “But our lord and lady’s daughters are dear to us as our own, and my nephews and nieces visit often. The Water Tower never lacks for children.”

Lady Tuttle’s easy acceptance of this brought a new sweetness to Talla’s mug of wine. At home it would be considered a personal failing, not to bear any children for your husband, but perhaps in the North it was different. Tuttle seemed happy enough with his bride, old and barren as she was. With luck, Brandon would feel the same. The thought warmed her.

“Is there any other news from the north?” Uncle Colin was asking. “My nephew is a man of the Night’s Watch—”

“Bless him,” muttered Cynthia.

“—and we’ve not had word from him in months,” he finished. “His mother worries.”

“Mmm… you know the Wall fell?” asked Tuttle.

Mother spat a mouthful of wine back into her mug. “ _What??_ ” Trembling, she set it down on the arm of her chair.

“Aye.” Tuttle’s garrulous manner vanished in an instant. “At Eastwatch. The Watch has fallen back to Winterfell. Shouldn’t be surprised, I hear the new Lord Commander isn’t even a Northerner.” He drank deeply to steel himself. “Some Vale man. No wonder the Wall fell.”

“And the men?” The strain in Mother’s voice was evident to her, if no one else; but Talla wasn’t worried. Sam had no reason to be at Eastwatch. “Did any of them live?”

“Most of them, from what we understand,” Cynthia whispered. “We received a raven from a Maester Samwell at Winterfell just after it happened, didn’t we, Ben?” Mother slumped over in relief when Sam’s name was mentioned. “They arrived with _wildlings_! And here was me thinking the wildlings were the greatest threat to the realm.”

“I said it,” Tuttle murmured, “There ought not to be Southrons leading the Watch. Don’t know what’s what.”

Blinking stupidly, Uncle Colin reentered the conversation, feeling hard-done-by that three other people had spoken without asking for his input. “Why’d they bring wildlings with them, if they breached the wall?”

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it?” An unhealthy intensity came over Cynthia. This was clearly the most excitement she’d had in months. “The wildlings didn’t do it! We heard it was an _ice dragon_.”

Her uncle’s face purpled with mirth. Mulled wine splashed his doublet. “An _ice_ dragon? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Well, nor have I, Ser, but we didn’t believe the regular dragons had come back either until we saw one flying overhead. A few weeks back, it was, a great beastly thing, and green as a cat’s eye. Looked nearer to a lizard-lion that anything else, but with those wings…” And Tuttle and her uncle continued their good-natured bickering, Cynthia contributing nods and an occasional “oh yes,” and “just so!”

 _One of those dragons killed Father and Dickon._ She felt the sudden hard slam of nausea in her midsection. In all the intrigue and excitement, she had somehow forgotten that in a few short days she might see those dragons for herself. It had never occurred to her that they would be flying about wherever they pleased! Would they see them in the sky on the way to Barrowton? Could they smell her or Mother, and know them for enemies? Dragons were said to be very intelligent. Even a man as slow-witted as Uncle Colin could smell trouble.

Talla stayed in the common room as short a time as was decent. When she at last determined that the Tuttles would not miss her, she begged leave to go off to her own room and sleep. “Such a long ride in the cold has wearied me,” she sighed, to sympathetic tongue-clucking all around. For once, Mother did not find fault with her. She gave Talla an impatient kiss on the cheek and returned her attention to Tuttle’s musings. For her life she could not see why; the man was going on about some fire at Deepwood Motte, as if it were of any interest to his guests.

Talla jostled her mother awake as soon as the sun rose. “Good morrow!” she said with counterfeit cheer. “Time to be getting on to Barrowton. Make hay while the sun shines, as you like to say.” Her body itched with inactivity. She had not slept since leaving the _Fair Wynafryd,_ her mind too full of snapping dragons and restless wolves to settle. Most of the dark hours before dawn had been spent curled on her side, staring out the window of her chamber into nothingness; but in that last hour she had given herself a serious pep talk, rather like one Dickon would use to coax Sam when Father was not around. “You can do this,” she whispered into the dark. “It’s an easy ride to Barrowton, and then you can reveal yourself, and you’ll have an escort to Winterfell. Dragons will not harm you. It must be safe or Mother wouldn’t have brought me here.” She told herself this over and over until she started to believe in it.

Come morning, when the sky outside looked the same as at home and the shadows had receded, the prospect of wedding a man she had never met seemed the more daunting task. So, as she was wont to do when frightened, Talla determined to rush headlong at the obstacle. It would not calm her nerves any to sit and wait. If rejection was coming, she wanted it over with; and if Brandon accepted her, well, best to be getting on with the wedding. Even if these forest fires she was hearing about delayed them from reaching Winterfell, she’d rather while away her time in the bustling town of Barrowton than here at this lonely tower in the hills. At least in town they could finally send a raven to Sam, and she could drop the Florys act, which she now recognized as foolish. _Playacting is for children, and I am a woman about to be wed,_ she told herself sternly.

She poked her mother again. “Motherrrr, wake up,” she whined. “Uncle Colin is already up and about.”

The subtle shaming roused her, as she knew it would. “Mother, Maiden and Crone, Talla,” complained Mother, frowning even with her eyes closed. “What hour is it?”

“Dawn,” she chirped. “We’re to break our fast with Lord and Lady Waterman and leave as soon as the horses are saddled. With such an early start we can reach Barrowton before it gets dark.” Businesslike, she began to gather Mother’s outdoor things and pile them handily at the foot of the bed.

Drowsy, Mother nonetheless sat up and rubbed at her eyes. “You just can’t wait to meet your betrothed, can you?” she said with a sleepy smile. “I remember that feeling. I too rose in the wee hours the morning of my betrothal ceremony. That day your father seemed to bring the dawn with him.” The wistful happiness on her face cut Talla to the quick. It was a difficult thing, to think of her parents as separate entities. She’d always seen them as a matched set. _Will my children think of me and Brandon so?_ she wondered.

“I don’t want to keep him waiting, that’s all.” She beamed at her mother. If she kept up the show of enthusiasm, maybe some if it would return to her. _You were excited at home,_ she reminded herself. _You’re just nervous. And tired. And those dragons are worrying you._

“We might stay a few days at Barrowton,” Mother told her as they waited in the yard for the horses to be readied. “Lady Dustin rules those lands, and I met her in White Harbor as a girl. It might be nice to spend a bit of time with an old friend—oh, are we off?” The Waterman guard who’d escorted them from the Saltspear was approaching, reins in hand.

“You’re off.” He looked entirely too pleased to be staying behind. “With those five sailors you’ve collected. Don’t reckon you’ll run into bandits, but if you do, a few stout men can drive them off. Any Northman of sense or ability spends his winters at home.”

Her mother lifted one dainty eyebrow. “Are bandits common??”

“Not anymore, milady. We saw a fair few during wartime, but by now they’ve mostly gone to ground or starved to death.” He chuckled. “Our preferred method of dealing with riff-raff.”

“I see,” she muttered. “Let’s hope we don’t run afoul of them, or them us.”

All morning they followed the Howling River to the north and east, stopping now and again to pass around a skin of strongwine to warm the belly, or let Mother walk off her saddle soreness. _It is a trial for her to ride so far and fast,_ Talla thought, but her mother bore the aches and pains and even the sailors’ jibes about pampered Southron women with easy grace. How did she do it? Talla would not have tolerated such rudeness, and it bothered her that Mother did not speak up for herself. But then, there was a dignity in not stooping to your opponent’s level. Perhaps she should try to do the same. _Or perhaps I am just not the sort of woman Mother is._

A handful of holdfasts and homesteads dotted the sloping hills. They might ride for a league without seeing any sign of life but for a curl of chimney smoke on the horizon. Only once did they meet another person, a solitary man squatting on the ice in the middle of a wide, shallow lake. He’d rigged up some kind of shelter over himself out of tree branches and furs. “What is that man doing?” she hissed to the closest sailor, a sun-beaten man with dirty blond hair and the worst teeth she had ever seen. He was also the least scary-looking of their new companions, being hardly bigger than Talla herself.

“Ice fishing, unless I miss my guess,” he answered, looking mildly surprised that she had spoken to him. “If I had a pole, I’d try it myself. Got to eat somehow. Those Watermans do not set a lavish table.”

“Are you good with a pole?” she asked, struggling to keep her face composed. It was the sort of thing Margaery might have said. Might as well sneak in a bit more flirtation while she was still pretending to be Florys. She was out of practice, and she’d need to hone her seduction skills if she wanted to entice Brandon. A shame this man was so ugly.

His grin at her double entendre turned positively filthy. “Aye, milady, I handle a pole better than most. Would you like a turn?”

She pretended to consider it, but in reality was trying not to burst out laughing. Did men know how stupid they sounded? “That’s a bold thing to say to a lady.”

“Well, I don’t know yet what sort of lady you are. You a lord’s daughter?”

“Yes,” she agreed, before remembering she was supposed to be the daughter of Hosman Norcross, not Randyll Tarly. “Well, close enough. My father was a household knight.” Had Hosman died? She thought so, but… Uncle Colin really should’ve gone over his household with her and Mother before they agreed to this charade.

“Still born too high for the likes of me.” He spit into the frozen mud and trotted away, bored. _Indeed,_ she thought, shuddering.

Regardless, the encounter had her thinking. Her days at court seemed long ago, now, and she’d lost some of her conversational skills. Besides, Father had never liked her to talk and jape with his men, so she was a bit lagging in that department to begin with. Seven hells, she hadn’t even kissed anyone since Margaery—she might want to get in a discreet fumble or two with a man of Barrowton before going to Winterfell to meet her future husband. Just for practice! She wondered if there were any single, modest men of Lady Dustin’s household who would welcome a brief entanglement with a passing Southern lady.

With that thought in mind, she did her best to keep her hair tidy and her face out of the wind’s teeth. She had learned over the past several days that a few minutes outside in this weather would raise a fetching blush on her cheeks, but any longer and her eyes would start to squint and water. It might be best to remove her scarf just as they entered Barrowton to present her best aspect at Barrow Hall. When they reached the first settlement of any size they’d seen since leaving Pyke, she was inspired to ride up to Mother and ask after their progress. “How much longer?” she asked, pulling down her scarf as they passed beneath the town’s southern gate. The ice accumulating on the outside of the cloth was uncomfortable, but the bite of the wind was worse.

Mother frowned down at her. “How much longer until what?” She was ready to dismount, too, Talla saw. She had rarely seen a person sit so stiffly.

“Until we reach Barrowton. I thought I’d like to freshen up a bit before we ride in, you know, if I’m to be these people’s Lady.”

“Dear, this _is_ Barrowton.”

 _“This??”_ All right, she had been warned that the North was a bit backwards, but this was too much. She’d expected something at least the size of Dunstonbury. This place couldn’t be more than half a league across from tip to tail. And everything, _everything_ was made of wood! At least it looked so under the heavy cloak of snow. “It’s so… small!”

“Everything is smaller in the North except the land and the sky,” Mother said grimly.

They rode through a silent town, each door shut tight against the ceaseless wind, no one sweeping their entryway or yelling to a neighbor or going to market. It seemed the animals had been brought indoors as well, to judge by the empty streets. In Lannisport one could barely drive a cart for all the stray dogs and cats, but not so here. Even the tavern was doing a poor business. Talla could not guess why; it was cold, of course, but surely Northmen would be used to it? The day was fine and sunny, and it was not snowing anymore.

“I mislike this,” Mother said to her in a low voice. She twirled a curl around one finger, a sure sign of nerves. “I did not expect to find the town thriving, exactly, but it looks almost deserted. Barrowton should be more populated in winter, with all the smallfolk in town for warmth and safety. Where is everyone?”

Uncle Colin felt the need to gift them his opinion. “’Spect most of the men died in the wars,” he said with a sage nod. “Their women will be shy of strange parties out of the South. Things will come alive once word gets around that we’re nothing to fear.” Still, the calm was making even him uncomfortable, he who felt at home most anywhere there was drink and crowd of people to listen to him.

A handful of the bolder townsfolk peeped their heads out to spy on the newcomers, but no one engaged them until they reached the castle on the hill in the center of town. _This must be Barrow Hall,_ she thought with renewed disappointment. Even Sunhouse in Cuy was bigger, and Standfast was at least made of stone! _If THIS is the second-largest town in the North… what can I expect from Winterfell?_

It was too much to hope that they would enter Barrow Hall without some kind of problem. The gate was closed to them, and the guards did not make any move to raise it when they approached. “Declare yourself,” they ordered instead, leering down at their small party from their perch.

“I have the pleasure to be Ser Colin Florent of Brightwater Keep,” said her uncle. Talla had an idea he expected them to be impressed. “We have ridden from the Saltspear since last evening, and beseech Lady Dustin to offer us her hospitality for a night.”

The guards muttered to each other and she and Mother shivered below. “She expecting you?” said one at last. “The Lady don’t like to host single men—”

“Thinks they might try and marry her!” cracked the other.

“—and, beg pardon Ser, we’ve no notion of why a southerner like yourself would be up in these lands in winter. Unnatural, like.” The guard spat. “Though you’re a stouthearted bunch, if you’ve got this far.”

“It’s not Lady Dustin’s hand we’re interested in.” There was a murmur of disbelief. “My granddaughter seeks a Northern husband. Barrowton is just one stop on our journey.”

“Your granddaughter?” The more verbose of the guards gestured one gauntleted hand at her. “This the lady?”

“Yes,” she said, heart racing. “Florys Norcross, if it please you. Might we meet with Lady Dustin? I’d be so grateful for her introduction to any prospective husband.”

Lady Dustin did not seem any more prepared than the Watermans to greet guests on a whim. At home, Mother would’ve been prepared for visitors at any time… _But this is not the Reach,_ she reminded herself. _This could be a good thing._ If she remained at Winterfell herself, it might be nice to be free from such social duties.

The family—though she shuddered to think of Colin as “family’—was shown to Lady Dustin’s solar for a more private meeting, while their companions from the _Fair Wynafryd_ got to beg scraps of lunch in the Great Hall. The one who’d been so bold earlier winked at Talla as he passed. The familiarity was worrying, but she almost didn’t care. The the light breakfast they’d eaten at the Water Tower seemed like something from another chapter in her life. “Save me some,” she mouthed, and he winked again.

Lady Dustin presided over her dimly lit solar, straight-backed and severe. Talla’s first impression was that this was not someone to take lightly. Clad all in black, the Lady had a crisp mouth, mercilessly tamed eyebrows, and deep lines around her nose and cheeks that suggested smiles were a rare occurence. A stiff, jutting collar lent her a queenly aspect. Talla was reminded, with a touch of unease, of Father.

Uncle Colin’s eyes shone, enchanted despite his earlier reassurances. “My lady,” he murmured, sweeping into a deep bow. “Will you take pity on a humble knight of the Reach, and allow him to kiss your hand? Your presence is overwhelming.” Mother squeezed her hand. _Don’t laugh,_ it seemed to say. “I have traveled the length and breadth of Westeros and hardly seen such a magnificent lady as yourself.”

“You may,” she granted, extending her hand. “But rather than compliments I’d settle for an explanation of who you are, and why you are here.”

“I have the pleasure to be Ser Colin Florent—” he started again, but she interrupted.

“I can identify your house from your sigil, Ser, and your person from your florid behavior.” The Lady of Barrowton allowed herself a moment of some emotion that might have been merriment. “I speak of the ladies.”

 _Is it wise to declare ourselves?_ From Mother’s childhood recollections, recounted to Talla on the ride from the Water Tower, she’d expected to meet someone like Rohanne Webber, the fabled Red Widow; fierce but fey, with ability to rival any man. Ability this woman had in spades, else she could not have held such a notable settlement on her own for so long, but if there had ever been a trace of girlishness about her, it was forgotten before Talla was born.

“Do you not remember me, Barbrey?” said Mother, with a trace of distress. “It’s been many years since we met at White Harbor, make no mistake, but I have fond memories of you. I seem to recall us building a rather irreverent snowman in the shape of the elder Lord Manderly—”

“With a mermaid’s tail,” finished Lady Dustin. “Yes, I remember. I couldn’t have been more than nine, ten. That must make you a Florent as well, despite your garb… Melara, was it?”

“Melessa.” Talla felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Now Melessa Tarly.”

“Tarly? We met as maidens… we meet again as widows.” Lady Dustin’s cheek twitched.

“Let us not dwell on such sad tidings,” said Mother hurriedly. “I have come north seeking a husband for my daughter, Talla. She is Lady of Horn Hill, now, so we are taking care to find a true and honest man to take her to wife instead of an opportunist. We’d heard that Northmen were steadier… more honorable.” It was left unsaid that Northmen could also be counted upon not to harbor any Dornish sympathies.

Uncle Colin kept quiet, thank the Gods. “The struggle is not unfamiliar to me,” mused Lady Dustin. “Steadiness you may find, though honor is no more common here than anywhere. Cley Cerwyn would be a fine choice, but may require a strong personality to guide him. Is your daughter bold, Melessa?”

Everyone looked to her. Talla’s cheeks flamed. “Er—sometimes,” she cheeped. She’d never felt less bold.

“In that case,” continued Lady Dustin, “I would suggest Brandon Tallhart. Never listens to anyone, so you may as well do what you like.”

“We will give your suggestions special consideration, my lady.” Uncle Colin inclined his head rapturously. “In fact, we need still send a raven ahead of us… if I might meet with your Maester before we sup…”

“I’ll see to it,” Mother interrupted. “Barbrey, my son Samwell is at Winterfell. I would be in your debt if you would allow me to send a raven letting him know we are here.”

“Of course.”

Two days later, Talla’s anxiety had so infected her mother that she was considering leaving Barrowton early. “I’d hoped to rest a week or more, wait on a raven from Sam,” she confessed over a rare private dinner, just the two of them, in their guest quarters. Uncle Colin had gone off to a more traditional supper in the Great Hall, where he was no doubt holding court at Lady Dustin’s side. “But now we are here, something tells me not to tarry. This news about the Wall has made me worried for your brother. And these fires in the wolfswood, well… I would feel more comfortable behind a wall of stone.”

“Will we leave on the morrow, then?” With Mother, there was no need to hide her excitement. Barrowton was dull as dirt, in her opinion, and Mother agreed even if she wouldn’t say it; besides, Uncle Colin was like to get them banned from Barrow Hall if he kept carrying on like he was. Lady Dustin accepted his compliments and gifts with aplomb, but her demeanor said she wouldn’t tolerate the sight of him much longer.

“Colin and I will, dear. I still think you ought to stay until your betrothal is worked out with the Starks.”

“But—” she whined.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear.” A frown creased her mother’s brow. “But it’s not done, you know, for a lady to just show up and beg a man’s hand! It needs to be arranged between the families, and if he agrees, Brandon will send for you. You are a daughter of Horn Hill, which puts you at a disadvantage in these lands. You saw what the Watermans thought of southerners.”

 _As if I had any control over where I was born._ Talla rolled her eyes. “I hope my betrothed is not so insular,” she muttered.

“So do I.” Her mother took a quiet bite of herring. Then she said, “Eat, Talla, you are skin and bones.”

“Some men like that,” she argued. “And when my weight is good, my face is too plump.”

“One of the more unfortunate Florent traits,” her mother sighed, returning to her mashed neeps. “Be glad you do not have the ears, as well.”

Under cover of her mother’s soothing prattle about timelines and arrangements and betrothal gifts, Talla pushed her food around, making it seem as though she was eating. In truth she was too wound up to have much more than a few bites of sherbet. Delays were inevitable, and she should’ve known it. There were few roads in the North, it wouldn’t be an easy thing to travel here. But Talla was not a girl made for sitting and waiting. Doubts and second guesses would plague her until she set eyes on her betrothed; then, everything would be fine, even if he was ugly or fat or uncouth. Any of those would be easier to deal with than whatever her mind cooked up in one of her sleepless nights.

“Please be quick about it,” she blurted out suddenly. “I don’t want to stay here longer than I have to. Will you write me, when you get to Winterfell? Let me know what Brandon is like?”

For the second time on their journey, Talla felt very blessed to have the mother she did. She could relate, having spent so many years married to Father, who could not be called a friendly man even by those he loved. “Of course I will,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Consider me your spy.”

“Can you ask him if he likes riding? Er—on second thought, don’t.” Brandon wouldn’t be able to ride a horse. “But can you find out his favorite book? And whether he laughs often, or is quiet? And—” Her face flamed with embarrassment. “Whether he is handsome?” Sansa was the only Stark she’d ever seen, glimpsed from afar at court, and she’d been a wistful sort of pretty—all big blue eyes and graceful long limbs—but who knew if she and Bran favored each other.

Mother chuckled and Talla felt her face burn. “No need to be embarrassed, I am not so old I have forgotten the potency of first love. I shall not neglect a single detail.”

“You can neglect _some_ details,” she said with alarm. Mother could be flowery… the last thing she wanted was to read an ode to her betrothed’s physical virtues.

Her mother laughed then, so hard she had to put down her fork. “Oh Talla, you slay me. Why don’t you ask Lady Dustin, if you are so worried? She will be more familiar with him.”

“Maybe,” she said, but only to placate her mother. Lady Dustin was frightening. Imagine, asking her to gossip like one of her friends at home. She might find herself banned from Barrow Hall along with Uncle Colin. The thought made her antsy.

“Dear, is something else bothering you? You seem tense.”

“Just nervous,” she said, and attempted another bite of sherbet. “About whether he’ll like me.” _About whether I’ll like him._ “Maybe he won’t. He might have… heard things. From his sister, you know.”

“Oh dear.” Mother fixed her with a stare more appropriate for an interrogation. “I hoped not to have to do this. Talla, are you still a maiden? If you are not, now is the time to tell me.”

Talla scoffed. “What?? Of course I am! What you are you thinking of??”

“I am thinking you are near thirty, and were in King’s Landing without your family,” Mother said steadily. “I know you spent a lot of time with Queen Margaery, and she had… a certain reputation. You would not be the first, or the last, virtuous maiden to be led astray by a promise and a comely face. Think of your Aunt Delena!” For that was the only reason she’d married Hosman Norcross in the first place. Her very public deflowering by Robert Baratheon had left her with few other options. _Like me,_ Talla thought unhappily, _and I didn’t even do anything._

“No, Mother, I never went with a man… like that,” she muttered. “I have had some kisses, and that is all.” A memory of Margaery’s soft breath on her face made her warm all over. She could almost feel her friend’s long curly locks brushing her face again. _That was just foolishness,_ she told herself. “How else do you think I knew Symun Fossoway had bad breath?”

Mother laughed even harder at that.

With Mother and Uncle Colin gone, she found Lady Dustin more charitable. She allowed Talla to ride with her, perhaps her last chance before Winterfell, and gave her a place of honor in the Great Hall for dinners. Sometimes Talla would sit with her while she heard petitions, in hopes of learning some of the Northern families’ names and concerns. She wasn’t sure if Lady Dustin—Barbrey, as she had been invited to call her—approved of that, but she didn’t forbid it. At night they might take a glass of wine together, and Barbrey would tell her little bits of Northern history and let slip tantalizing hints about her betrothed, Brandon. Talla still hadn’t told her they were meant to be married, but she thought Lady Dustin must know, or why would she keep talking about the Starks?

Still no news came from Winterfell.

A week passed, an interminable week of petitions and outings with Lady Stout of Goldgrass and bored strolls in Barrow Hall. The remaining sailors from the _Fair Wynafryd,_ intended to be her escort to Winterfell, were growing restive. Some had ideas of finding work in Winter Town. Others dreamed of visiting the brothel, for Barrowton did not have such an establishment. The sailor who’d flirted with her on the way north, who she learned was called Garth, had spoken at length on that subject. Somehow, he’d become her foremost companion in Barrowton, almost by default. At first she tried to keep her distance, so as not to encourage him, but ultimately decided there was no harm in their friendship. He still looked at her sometimes when he thought she was distracted, leered as if trying to picture what she looked like under her clothes; but for all that, he never said anything else discourteous, or tried to touch her. In a way, it was encouraging that he found her so attractive. Brandon was almost ten years younger than she, and might prefer girls his own age. She’d be hard pressed to compete with a teenager.

Still no news came from Winterfell. “They might have rested at Castle Cerwyn a few days,” suggested Barbrey, “Or perhaps the raven went astray. If they do not get a response, they’ll send another. Patience, Talla.”

Then one morning Lady Dustin did not come down to hear petitions. “Ill,” her steward reported.

“Oh dear, is it serious? Shall I bring her broth, or, or sit with her and read..?” She trailed off, seeing the panicked look on the stewards’ face. Probably no one had been allowed to see Lady Dustin at less than full strength for years. “Or… I might get some fresh air instead,” she suggested, and his face cleared.

“A wise choice, I think. The Lady is down with a nasty head cold, nothing serious, you understand, but as she can’t speak above a whisper, there’s not much point in you sitting with her,” he blustered. “I can arrange a visit with Lady Stout, if you wish…”

A little bit of Lady Stout went a long way. It was not becoming for a woman her age to gossip so. Talla’s last visit alone would keep the rumor mill of Barrowton turning for weeks. “No, I’ll just have a ride, I think. I’ll be back before dark. Please, if a raven comes from my family, can you set it aside for me to read when I return?” The delay had her wound up, but as they’d had no news of dragon attacks at Barrowton, she assumed Mother must be well. _Perhaps betrothals in the North take a long time to negotiate,_ she told herself for the second time that day. Maybe she should ask Barbrey about it, when her mood and condition improved.

“Of course, Lady Tarly,” said the steward, nodding in respect. “Be careful. Take a guard with you.”

It was in an unsettled sort of mood that she and Garth galloped out of the Barrow Hall stables that day. His saddlebag bulged with provisions— _is he planning a picnic?_ she wondered, pitying the unfortunate lovestruck man—but she had taken nothing for the journey except Dickon’s cloak and a muffler she’d borrowed from Barbrey. She wanted to ride forever, all the way to Wintefell to meet her family, or to the Wall to see where Sam had lived. _Or maybe all the way home,_ said the little voice inside. She ignored it, spurring her horse on, leaving Garth in the plume of snow trailing from her mount’s hooves. Wind beat against her ears, drowning out his pleas to slow down and stay in sight. She had no desire to listen to men.

 _What am I doing?_ she thought later, leagues from Barrowton. Her mount had slowed to a canter, then a trot, and Talla hadn’t the heart to kick her again. After all, she had nowhere to be. _Nowhere to be and no use to anyone, unless Brandon wants me._ She was a good match, but men could be fickle. Some preferred a fragile winter rose to the vibrant varieties grown in Highgarden. _And I am not even a rose,_ she thought. More of a stubborn weed!

Would it hurt, if Brandon rejected her? She pondered it, tried to examine it truthfully, as her mount drank from an icy stream. It would certainly be a blow to her ego, but Symun Fossoway’s disapproval would’ve hurt as well, and she didn’t care for him at all. _Suppose he does like me,_ she considered. _Let’s say he is so captivated by my beauty and spirit that he wants to make me his wife at once_ —She started giggling before she could finish the thought. Maybe not. _Suppose he does want me, what then?_ Would the reckless enthusiasm she’d felt at Horn Hill return? She so desperately wanted to be excited again.

“Milady,” a voice wheezed from behind her, interrupting her musings. It was only Garth, red-faced, shivering, and cross. “Are you determined to get yourself killed? There’s wolves and worse ‘round here who wouldn’t think twice about troubling your ladyship for a bit of sport. And that’s not even talking of men.” He drew his horse up next to her own and wiggled his eyebrows. As if she didn’t know what men might do to an unescorted lady. “There’s bandits about, you heard Tuttle.”

“I can protect myself,” she muttered, sore at her private time being interrupted. “I’ve a weapon.” At King’s Landing she’d taken to keeping a pocketknife in her boot, in the fashion of Queen Margaery’s ladies, and the habit had stuck even at boring, safe Horn Hill.

“Is that so?” he mocked. “Show me.” He swung a leg over his mount’s back and hopped down onto the barren prairie. For a man who’d never ridden before their trip to Barrowton, he was showing an uncanny facility with horses. Already he was better than Mother.

In one fluid movement she slid the pocketknife out from her boot, noticing his gaze on her exposed calf, and tossed it to him. He caught it as she dismounted and stood fascinated, examining the blade.

“Not a very big thing, but sharp,” he observed, testing its edge on his thumb. A globe of blood welled up where he had pricked it. “Do you know how to use this, milady?”

“I’ve practiced,” she said, defensive. Why else would she carry such a thing? It might not be much use at home, but here in the North, she knew almost no one and had no friends. The only man bound to protect her was tubby old Uncle Colin, and he was miles away. When she left Barrowton for good, she might find herself lost on the windswept plains, vulnerable to attack by wolves or bandits or lone men who meant her harm… She turned to scan the horizon, but there was nothing.

Her heartbeat had picked up speed before she realized why. Wasn’t she alone on the plains with a strange man right now? She didn’t really know Garth at all, for all their friendly banter. He could be anyone. And nobody knew where she was—she’d only told Lady Dustin’s steward she was riding and would be back by dinner. She was alone with a strange man and she’d just _handed him her only weapon._ A horrible creeping feeling crawled along her skin. Her stomach pitched and heaved like she was back on the deck of the _Fair Wynafryd_.

“Garth?” she wavered. For a split second she felt his hot, savage breath on her ear, and then her vision went dark. Somewhere in her rational mind she realized he must have pulled a hood or sack over her head, but the uppermost thought was _no, no, he’s smothering me,_ and she screamed. Her hands flapped uselessly about his shoulders and head. Her pulse beat in her ears like the wings of so many birds. In a last, unthinking protest to the surprise assault— _this isn’t happening, he’s my friend_ , her mind still pleaded—she dug in her heels, but he just lifted her off the ground. _He can lift me with one arm,_ she realized. _He’s much stronger than he looks, I can’t fight him. Not without my knife._ The thought hammered home the danger like nothing else. Her renewed struggles only made him grunt against her shoulder. _Kick him,_ she heard Dickon’s voice say, _kick him in the groin,_ but she was in the wrong position, he was behind her. Still she tried, but he only pulled the hood tighter. She smelled blood, his? Hers? _Maybe he does mean to smother me._ Spots of colored light burst in her field of vision. “Help,” she screamed again, “Help me!” Her mount whinnied in sympathy, but her cries otherwise carried unencumbered over the plains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my dear readers, you may be wondering if something nasty is awaiting poor Talla. I do intend to give a warning up front for any chapters that contain triggering content. But generally you do not need to worry about graphic first-person descriptions of assault, or bad things happening to kids. We don't do that here!  
> The Watermans are a real canonical house, but we know very little about them. I've decided they are one of the Dustins' bannermen because it suits me.  
> Looks like Bran might not be meeting his lady love yet, after all... But they don't know that at Winterfell! Next chapter, we'll check in with our dolorous old friend and his irrepressible new companion, Ned Umber, and Jon has some troubling news to share.


	23. The Lord Commander III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edd ponders the state of the Watch and his own vows. Jon struggles to protect and feed his people, but are the smallfolk beginning to lose faith in the Starks?

Like most men of the Night’s Watch, Edd took a loose interpretation of the vow of celibacy. _Take no wife_ were the words, not _visit no whores_ , so as long as the women he favored did not produce little long-faced children, he felt comfortable with the occasional visit to Mole’s Town. Until Jon appointed him as acting Lord Commander, anyway. Neither Jon nor the Old Bear nor Lord Commander Qorgyle had ever been seen in Mole’s Town, except in full daylight on official business in front of many witnesses, and he wasn’t about to buck tradition. More and more often, anyway, he was becoming convinced that the solitary ride there and back wasn’t worth it. He thought it came of getting older. Of course his forty-three-year-old self wouldn’t feel the same urgency he had at fifteen, to lie with strange women and endure the mock intimacy that came with such encounters. Besides, there was only one woman who had piqued his interest in the past several years, and she was not available in any brothel. Before one moon had turned on his tenure as acting Lord Commander, he decided to swear off whores for good and considered it a mature decision.

So he’d really done it to himself, he thought with detached amusement, to forswear any sort of sexual gratification at the very moment Winterfell was teeming with ladies of all kinds. It was easy to be celibate at the Wall, where all the women were trained in combat and might well gut him in response to an unwanted advance. Spearwives were a bit wild for him, anyway, no matter what Jon had to say about their charms. Here there were _ladies_ , proper ones, with pretty clothes and soft, smooth hair and good manners. Educated ladies who could talk politics. Talented ladies who could paint a picture or embroider a handkerchief. Innocent ladies who wept over an injured bird, never having seen a man run through with a spear, or a woman attacked by her own children. Yes, he generally preferred ladies to spearwives, but at his age he should have his libido well in hand. Instead, his distraction continued to embarrass him at table, at council, with his men. Even Hobb had noticed. “Best go to Winter Town and get it over with,” he advised with a sage nod, “As soon as you can make it on those feet. They’ve got this woman in the brothel there, taller than most, and she dyes her hair red… Looks almost like…” He snapped his mouth shut at Edd’s glare.

 _It’s all that damn cook’s fault,_ he thought furiously as he woke, again, with a problem. She’d gone and flirted with him, and when he did not spurn her, continued to visit his room on increasingly thin pretexts. Soon his feet would he healed and she’d have no reason to “tend” him anymore. He was expecting an open proposition any time now. _Maybe I ought to do it,_ he thought, _after all, she’s no whore._ She was plumper than he usually went for, but it didn’t put him off, and the part of her face that wasn’t mangled was cute. If she turned her head to the side it would be fine. Hobb would tell him to go for it. Sam, too. But she might get attached, and a woman as kind as Dariya deserved a husband to care for her, not an awkward entanglement with him. She had a young son to think of. He only didn’t want to lead her on, that was it—he wasn’t worried about calling her the wrong name or anything, not at all.

Edd was pondering whether he had time for a quick wank when an officious _rap, rap_ at his door announced a visitor. It wouldn’t be Hobb; he’d barge right in without asking. “Come in,” he yelled, and placed a pillow over his lap.

A breakfast tray entered, borne by a scowling Jon. _Thank the gods._ An excellent remedy for his condition, for he could scarcely imagine someone less arousing than Jon, and food was always welcome. “Funny,” he commented, “I don’t remember you rejoining the Watch. Come to beg forgiveness and act as my steward?”

“Actually, I was more interested in _your_ stewarding duties.” His friend’s sullen expression turned to a smile. “Thought I might have better luck begging a favor once you’d eaten. I know how you get about your breakfast. Honestly, you should be the size of Sam.” He balanced the tray on a wobbly side table and pulled up a spare chair.

“I’ve been watching my boyish figure.” A pile of morning buns, still steaming from the oven and shining with glaze, looked the most tempting. The taste of cinnamon and raisins burst on his tongue when he bit into one. Good stuff. _Dariya must not have made these, then,_ he thought, rather uncharitably. “Have some, go on. Your wife won’t want to get fat all by herself.”

“Dany’s not fat,” Jon argued, but took a bun all the same. “She’s with child. There’s a difference, not that you would know. Besides, she’s only got a tiny belly right now.” He ducked his head, smiling into his chest. “It’s cute.”

It did nothing for Edd’s mood to imagine his friend—who’d taken the same vows as he—rubbing his beautiful wife’s bare belly. Where _had_ Hobb gone? For all his faults, he did not serve breakfast with a side of envy. “Where’s Hobb?”

“N’th kitchenfs,” came Jon’s garbled reply. He had taken a second raisin bun from the pile. “These are his work, Cook gave him free reign for once,” he said, after swallowing. “She had something to do this morning, so he took over. He’s elbow-deep in dough and happy as a clam.” They both snickered.

“Do you think Hobb a good choice for Lord Steward?” He’d never asked anyone’s opinion of his appointments before, but Jon’s was the one voice he trusted above all others. “He’s less educated than Bowen Marsh was, I’ll grant you, but I’m fairly confident he won’t stab me.”

It was good to see that Jon could still laugh. “Edd, you’re more likely to stab _yourself_ by accident than inspire a mutiny.”

“That’s true enough. Never was great shakes at swordplay, and I’m even worse now I’ve got these feet. Every time I draw my sword I’m worried I’ll wobble and slice off my own ear.”

“Might improve your looks,” Jon mused, and snorted with glee when the remainder of Edd’s roll _plonk_ ed off his forehead. “Hobb would be a fine Lord Steward, but I don’t know about grooming him as your successor. A leader has to make unpopular decisions. He cares too much about being liked.”

 _What does that say about me,_ Edd wondered. He cared about being liked! But he took Jon’s point; Hobb didn’t have much of a backbone. “I thank you for your wise counsel, Your Grace. Or should I say, Your Snowiness. S’pose you’ll be wanting something from me now, else you’d have sent someone else with that tray…”

“As I said, I require your skills as steward.” Just like that, Edd found himself addressing the King in the North instead of the friend he’d lived and worked beside. “Winterfell’s steward has been dead for years, and the Bolton’s fled when we took the castle. I need someone to take a frank look at Winterfell’s cellars and pantries and tell me when we can expect to run short.”

Edd’s first instinct was to agree, but then again, Jon had talked him into catastrophes before with requests very like this. “The Night’s Watch takes no part in matters of the Seven Kingdoms,” he said slowly, chewing over a bit of roll. “May be a moot point, with your Queen and all, but if it’s said in the South that the Lord Commander is acting as steward for you…”

“You are _not_ acting as steward,” said Jon firmly. “Just offering your opinion to an old friend. I will not call upon your expertise again.”

 _Not sure if I believe that,_ Edd thought. Quite unlike Hobb, Jon could be a bit _too_ hasty with the unpopular decisions. “In exchange for one thing,” he proposed. “The Night’s Watch does not have to repay you for the food we eat while we are here.”

“Deal—” Jon stuck out his hand.

“…And by you, I mean the Starks. We’ll not be going back on this agreement if you become King and Sansa takes your place here, or Bran.” He sensed either of them would be more challenging to negotiate with than Jon.

“Deal,” Jon repeated, chuckling, and they shook on it. “You must know Sansa better than I thought.”

 _Not as well as I would like to know her,_ he thought, and shifted the pillow on his lap.

The cellars, he discovered, lay adjacent to, but did not connect with, the underground system of Winterfell’s crypts. Just feet away from the hallowed passages where the old Kings of Winter lay sleeping under their blankets of stone, hams and sides of beef were laid to rest with considerably less ceremony. He did not think Jon would enjoy the irony. Instead, he contented himself with remarking upon the likelihood of supplementing their stores of meat by setting out rat traps. Jon’s failure to dismiss this outlandish suggestion out of hand worried him more than anything else had that day.

However, the situation did not appear dire, not yet. Rooms upon rooms of swinging deer carcasses, pigs, elk, cows, chickens, sheep, even an occasional goat. Winterfell’s bounty put the Watch’s ice cells to shame. They would still hunt for months to come, as well, and there were streams and lakes no more than a day’s ride from the castle. He said as much to Jon, beginning to wonder if he had some ulterior motive for inviting him on this errand.

“Even with the visitors, m’lord, you’ve enough meat for a few years at least. It’s been an uncommonly long summer, aye, but we don’t _know_ that winter will be any longer. And even if it is, isn’t that why your brother is marrying the Tarly girl? To ensure a supply of food from the Reach?” Edd poked a nearby sheep just to see it swing. Its trajectory was interrupted by a chicken carcass, which swung back to knock him in the head. “Bloody chicken,” he muttered.

“You’ve not seen the pantry,” Jon worried. “Thankfully, Ramsay enjoyed hunting… well, not thankfully, women were his prey more often than not. But he did lay in a fair supply of meat. All of it identifiable as animal, thank the gods.”

Just the mention of Ramsay made his blood boil, but there was little time to dwell on it, for Jon swept off to a neighboring room, the bobbing and swinging meats sending the light of his torch dancing eerily through the storeroom. The animals’ shadows capered once again on the walls. A grim possibility, considering the crypts next door. Edd followed, trepidation rising.

“The pantry,” Jon announced, waving his torch. “If it can be called that.”

To call the pantry “sparse” would be generous. Only a few months into winter and he could see through to the earthen walls in many places. These shelves should still be bursting with produce. Turnips were the most prominent item, turnips and wheat, with a fair number of carrots; but there was hardly a speck of green to be seen. He began to understand Dariya’s reliance on root vegetable gratins. _And there will be no replenishing the fruits and vegetables,_ he realized with a sinking heart.

Together they spent the better part of an hour taking stock of the food supply, tallying, estimating, supposing and “what if”-ing, until Edd was forced to admit that Winterfell, in its current state, might live on its food supply for two years _at most._ “Perhaps a bit longer, if civilians are put on three-quarters’ rations,” he suggested, but it mattered little. If wispy little Lyanna Mormont and corpulent Lord Manderly were expected to defend the North with their lives, very few could be classified as civilians.

“I suppose we ought to do that, then.” Jon’s aspect was even more sullen than usual. “The glass gardens will be sorely missed this winter, I fear.”

“No chance of having them rebuilt, m’lord?” 

“Even if we had the coin to order glass from Myr, we’d sooner spend it on food,” Jon grumbled. He glared at a bag of lentils as if it had personally offended him. “Would that my wife had contacts there… but Meereen is not rich in anything that can help us.”

“Well, what about Lord Tully’s lands? Winter is not so harsh there. If his men are here, perhaps he ought to be reminded that soldiers do not eat for free.”

“I do not trust Lord Tully as far as I can throw him,” Jon grumbled. “He cares for me no more than Lady Catelyn did. Like as not, he’d ransom the food to us once it was here. Although, there might be other lands less touched by the wars more willing to lend a hand…” He gave Edd a meaningful look.

“I see what you’re getting at, m’lord. Very well, I’ll write to my brother, see if he can send aid. If he remembers me, and is still alive, and is not suffering his own hardships, we might soon take possession of a half-bushel of apples! This is assuming, of course, that the ship isn’t waylaid by pirates, or the cart waylaid by wights. But if it’s important to m’lord…” They left the storeroom and wound their way through the meat room again, dodging racks of lamb. As they neared the stairs, a cold wind nipped at their faces.

His friend’s face was not visible in the dim, but his voice had a scowl in it. “What about Lord Uthor? Is your branch of the family still in touch?” They emerged into the weak light of the half-frozen courtyard, leaving the ghosts of cows and cabbages behind. Jon planted his torch in the snow next to the cellar door with tremendous force.

“Wasn’t in touch with him even when I was at home. He preferred to forget we existed.” His friend looked so cross that Edd decided to take pity on him. It wasn’t _his_ fault Winterfell’s economy had been mismanaged. “Although, if Lord Royce were to make the request…”

“I suggested the same thing,” came a voice from behind them. Sansa rose from a bench, looking impossibly young and fresh against the aged stone walls of Winterfell, and shook her skirts free of snow. “Nice to see you on your feet again, Lord Commander.” Her frank up-and-down appraisal of him made Edd blush. “Jon, Maester Wolkan’s after you. He’s had a letter from Lady Dustin.”

“This day,” Jon grumbled. “Just gets worse and worse. Can’t you have dealt with it, Sansa?”

“I tried,” she replied, frowning. If she was a bird, she’d have ruffled her feathers. “Wolkan insisted it was for your eyes only.”

“That thrice-damned...” Jon clenched and unclenched his sword hand. “Very well, I’ll see him now, and remind him AGAIN that you have my full confidence!”

“Have a pleasant afternoon, brother,” said Sansa with a flash of a smile, and kissed him on the cheek. Edd averted his eyes.

Jon departed in wrath, leaving him alone with Sansa, lovely, bright-eyed Sansa with her high cheekbones and pretty red hair. He had never stood so close to her before. Had she always been so tall? She smelled much nicer than Jon. _Like lemons,_ he thought, and his mouth tingled as if he’d bitten into one.

“You mustn’t let me keep you, Lady Sansa,” he blurted out. Had he been staring? “I was just taking stock of the supplies with your brother. Offering my expert opinion, you know, if it could be called that. Never acted as steward for a place as large as this, though I confess myself well acquainted with pantries.”

“Is that so? You don’t look it.” A single arch of her eyebrow conveyed dismay, suspicion, even a note of worry. “You’re still looking a bit pale and drawn. Are you quite sure you’re well enough to be out of bed?”

“That’s just what my face looks like, m’lady. Besides, I’ve had worse.” _I’ve had worse??_ Edd immediately wanted to cringe. Who was he, Robert Baratheon? “I can make it back to my room unescorted, if that’s what worries you. You can return to… whatever ladies do… without guilt.”

“Whatever ladies do? And what is that, pray tell?” Her tone had gone icy.

 _How,_ he wondered, _can she look so polite and charming while still hinting that she might fight me?_ “Oh, you know… Giving orders, keeping everyone in line… perhaps needlework.” That was what his mother had done, anyway. He hadn’t known many women.

Sansa’s lip curled. Was that a smile? “Actually, you’re spot on. I _do_ wish Bran had told us about this wedding a bit earlier, but men don’t think of such things. There’s so much to be done. This is hardly the season for such a major event.” As she spoke, a snowflake settled on the tip of her nose, but melted away at the touch of her skin. _She must be warm._

“Forgive me if I overstep, m’lady, but your brother doesn’t seem one to care about the formalities.”

“Of course he doesn’t care, but that doesn’t mean he can ignore them,” she steamed. There, that accounted for the melting snow. “Winterfell hasn’t seen a proper wedding in two generations. It will be an excuse for the smallfolk to drink and dance and celebrate, and they’ve had precious little of that in the past few years. Perhaps if they have a nice time, they will ignore the paucity of the feast.”

“Fill their bellies with drink instead? Yes, that often works.”

Sansa took a few abrupt steps forward and he thought she meant to leave him, but to his surprise she turned back and beckoned for him to follow. Surprised, Edd lurched forward, eager to keep up. Toes be damned, he wasn’t going to keep her waiting.

“I actually meant to see your friend Samwell, but you might as well come along. Kill two crows with one stone, as they say.” To hide her little smile, Sansa ducked her head into her chest, just like Jon had done. “I suppose he’s the man to give his sister away, but as he’s a Night’s Watch brother, I ought to get your permission first. Since you are supposed to renounce your family and all.”

“What?” he wheezed, nearly jogging to keep up with her strides. She must have very long legs—Edd tried not to think about that. There had been a steep decline in his stamina since his convalescence. “Oh, that’s nothing, he should do it. Since he’s already here and all. Not like he’s kept his other vows, has he?”

Under cover of a stone archway, Sansa halted and arranged her hood around her face in a series of tiny, deft movements. Edd knew the delay was a ruse to let him catch up, and he was grateful for it. “You don’t mind then, if Sam acts as head of the household? Excellent, I didn’t want to scrounge about for some distant relation or vassal of the Tarlys. One less thing off my list. This bridal cloak is already giving me fits.”

“Doesn’t the lady supply that?”

“Her maiden’s cloak, yes. I’m referring to the bridal cloak, in the Stark house colors. Haven’t you ever been to a wedding?”

He thought. “No, I haven’t,” he had to answer.

“Oh.” Clearly Sansa hadn’t expected that, but she covered the awkward moment with grace. “Have you been at the Wall so long?”

“Near thirty years, m’lady. I was already toiling away there when you were born,” he offered. _Why the fuck did I say that,_ he wondered. If only ladies weren’t so hard to talk to! Well, Gilly wasn’t, but she was something of a special case… _Proper_ ladies were hard to talk to, that was it.

“Well, no wonder you were chosen as Lord Commander, then. So much experience.” A moment’s rest was all she allowed him. They plodded off again in search of Sam’s little library, Edd thanking every deity he could think of for the slower pace. “In any case, the bridal cloak is what Bran will use to cloak his bride when the ceremony is over. Although… he may have trouble with that if she’s any height on her. Perhaps I should arrange for her to sit through the ceremony. Wait now while I write that down.” A magnificent curly-feathered quill slithered out of her sleeve like she was performing in a mummer’s show. How had she kept that hidden?? Edd considered asking what else she had hidden under her clothes before realizing how that would sound. _Gods be good, Jon would eviscerate me,_ he thought, and sweated despite the temperature.

“I—I’m sure the bride will be very fine indeed. I mean, the bride’s cloak, that is, if you’re making it…” _Oh no._ Edd heard himself babbling, but he could not stem the flow of utter bullshit from his mouth. “Because, you know, Jon has mentioned you are skilled with a needle. The cloak you made for him is very…” _Don’t say fine again._ “…Fine.” _Well done, Edd, she’ll think the fever took your wits, and you weren’t exactly brimming with them to start._

“It will be something to cover her with, at least.” Sansa rolled her eyes. “She’s from far to the south, so I imagine she’ll be grateful for it no matter what it looks like. She’d better be, for—” Suddenly cautious, she stole a glance at the people going about their business in the yard. None of the smallfolk looked suspicious to his eyes. “We are in such haste that my sister has been helping me with it, and her sewing is _awful_ ,” she confided, eyes alight with mischief.

“Isn’t she skilled with a needle of a different kind, m’lady? I wouldn’t go around commenting on her sewing if I were you.”

Sansa laughed then, not the little snicker she sometimes did in council meetings, or the polite titter she put on for the other lords, but a real, spontaneous hearty laugh. Edd felt absurdly pleased with himself, as well as warm in the face. “Do you know, she said exactly the same thing when I corrected her stitches? She was kind enough to remind me that her talent for swordplay far outstrips mine. I was forced to admit she was right, of course. It really was generous of her to offer.” Faint praise, perhaps, but her face visibly softened when she spoke of her sister.

The earlier success, her laughter, had made him quick to try again. “You ought not to share your secret with me, m’lady. What if the Lady Talla is a poor seamstress as well? I’d be honor bound to warn her of your high standards.”

“I have no worries that you will betray me. I know you are trustworthy.”

The Library Tower loomed up in front of them, blackened and charred. They only had a few more moments together; it could be another two years before she spoke to him again. _Damn that Sam,_ he thought. His friend already had a pretty girl to talk to. Why did he have to be the smart one? “What makes you say that?” he asked, grasping at straws.

“Ghost likes you.” Sansa shrugged as if that settled the matter.

“Ghost likes _treats_ ,” he corrected. “And as your brother’s steward, dinner duty usually fell to me.”

“Most of us become fond of those who feed us.” They’d reached the library door. He could hear Sam’s quill inside, scribbling away. “Thank you for your escort, Lord Commander, and your gracious willingness to look the other way at the wedding. Samwell will thank you too, I’m sure.”

 _But what have I to be thankful for?_ he wondered, watching her float through the library door. He’d made her laugh, so what. She also laughed with Tyrion, quite often in fact. What everyone thought was so funny about her little husband, Edd couldn’t understand; but they sat at the high table, heads clustered together, most nights, and he’d seen Sansa’s shoulders shaking with giggles more than once. And who was there to appreciate Edd’s jokes? A ten-year-old lord, a three-fingered steward, and an amorous cook—and the last was probably humoring him.

For all his grumbling about the boy lord, Edd had to admit Ned Umber made for decent company. He scowled less than Jon and dithered less than Sam. The sheer energy he exuded was exhausting, though. Other children had not been so noisy or boisterous when he was young, he was sure. The boy trained at his swordplay and archery all morning, and rode whenever the weather was good, chattering all the while, but somehow, he still mustered the enthusiasm to pester Edd every evening about the Wall, and beyond the Wall, and, come to that, what was _beyond_ beyond the wall. All his suggestions to talk to Tormund about that were met with stony silence. Well, he’d get through to him eventually. That Maester Godwin might’ve told him anything about the wildlings.

At least the Maester, or maybe the boy’s father, had taught him the necessity of responsibility and charity. The camp of refugees from the Last Hearth was still riddled with dragon fever, and little Ned was one of the few (other than Edd himself) who could safely walk among the afflicted. He’d spent hours at the camp, visiting with the sick and infirm, nearly every day since Wolkan first pronounced him healthy. If he wasn’t a very effective nurse, it at least cheered the smallfolk to see their lord so devoted to their wellbeing. Likewise, the people of Winter Town murmured about how encouraging it was to see “Little Ned” doing good works, and so young, too! One or two had even been heard to murmur that the Stark children could take a leaf out of his book (when they weren’t aware Edd was listening, of course.)

A few of them were at it again when Edd made his way down to the camp that evening with a cartful of provisions. “He’s doing Lord Brandon’s job for him, he is,” whispered a woman to her companion as Edd and his mule approached their glowing tent. The ladies had been put to work soaking bandages in wine and heating a pot of water in the crackling fire. These two often took possession of Edd’s supplies when he visited, and he recalled that both had been wet nurses at the Last Hearth, but he hadn’t yet bothered to learn either of their names. _The fewer women I have contact with, the better._ “Lord Umber is here near every day to lend strength to his people, and where is the Stark boy? Brooding over his future holdings from his tower, that’s where. Little good does it do anyone,” she hissed, rolling a bandage vigorously.

“Oh, I don’t blame him, with the chair and all,” chattered her younger companion. They favored each other enough to be sisters, or maybe cousins. “It’ll be too much trouble to wheel him down here. The Lady Arya, on the other hand, she’s able-bodied and unwed. What does she spend all her time _doing?”_

“I think you know.” The first woman wiggled her eyebrows and mimicked a blacksmith’s swing. Both laughed uproariously, but Edd grimaced. Ought he have mentioned that to Sansa, when they spoke? Did she really have no idea how people talked about her sister? For that matter, did Jon?

Edd threw back his hood and corrected his posture. His mule poked at the ground. “Excuse me, ladies,” he interrupted, peeling back a corner of the tent flap. He saw one of them jump when he poked his long nose into the tent. “But I’ve a load of provisions for the camp. If you help me unload them quick, I might be persuaded to share a bit of news from the castle.”

Like two halves of a cracked mirror, the ladies’ eyes widened in surprise and apprehension. They might not have recognized his voice, but his face was hard to mistake, and everyone in camp knew the Lord Commander. “Milord,” they gasped in unison, and did a pair of unsteady curtsies.

Edd waved away their courtesies. “M’no lord,” he barked. All this to-do was embarrassing. They should curtsy for Jon and the Queen and Sansa, not him. “Only came to drop off some food and supplies. I won’t ask if things have improved round here, they never do. Any of my men ready to move in to Winter Town and resume service?”

The older sister flicked her eyes at the younger. “Joby might be up and about in a day or so,” she answered at last. A bandage twirled around her fingers. “His fever broke last night, just needs to eat and rest and get his strength back.”

That wasn’t the whole story, or they wouldn’t have bothered to check with one another. “But?” he prompted.

“But…” Eyes downcast, she addressed Edd’s seven remaining toes. “I don’t mean to go telling tales on him, milord…”

The second “milord” bothered him less than her false hesitance. “If it’s the truth, you’re not telling tales. What’s he done? Stolen something?” Joby had been sent to the Wall for thievery, and even the life sentence had not taught him a lesson, for his fingers remained sticky. When this was discovered, Bowen Marsh posted him to the stables, the only place that could be counted upon to have nothing to tempt a pickpocket.

“He’s taken up with a lady,” piped up the younger sister. _Honest,_ he thought, _but she enjoyed telling me that._ Well, she must have a very boring life, mustn’t she, arguing with her sister and changing bandages? Edd liked a bit of gossip himself. 

“Which lady? She a whore?”

“She weren’t at the Last Hearth, milord, but now, who knows? Her husband’s dead and she has no occupation. Might have to take up whoring.” Both ladies uttered twin sounds of disgust and wiped their winey hands on their aprons, a spell to ward off the day that they, too, might have to make a living on their backs. The tension thus broken, they pushed through the tent flaps and into the chilly evening to help Edd with the contents of his cart. He’d rescued some of the turnips from the cellars as well as the chicken that had assaulted him earlier. That one would roast up nicely. Two crates of clean rags and cheap vintages had been spared from the castle, as well. It was more of a gesture of hope than a helpful one; what the afflicted really needed was warmth, food, and rest, all in short supply. With the day rapidly sliding towards evening, it was brisk enough outside the tent that the three of them made quick work of the cart. Good luck for him that both ladies were too cold for much talk. They paused only long enough to stamp their feet or breathe into their cupped hands, fingers shaking with cold. Edd ignored that and made his best attempt to keep his own gloved hands hidden.

Frankly, as long as Joby was discreet about it, he couldn’t be bothered to care about his little dalliance one way or the other. It could be worse, with his men now living cheek by jowl with women. Maybe one in twenty would actually keep his vows. Edd couldn’t say for sure yet if he was one of them. “Leave it to me, I’ll speak with Joby,” he said as they finished with the last of the food. “As for the lady, send her to Dariya in Winterfell’s kitchens when she improves. She’ll find her something to do. Reckon there will be plenty of work for the forseeable, what with... one thing and another.”

Both ladies paused in their unpacking and perked up their ears. “What d’you mean, milord? Will there be a feast in honor of King Jon’s heir?” Their eyes gleamed with hunger, their knobby, clawlike fingers clutched around sacks of grain. Excited for Jon’s son or daughter they might be, but he had a feeling the food was their primary concern.

“Possibly,” he fibbed, “But that’s moons away, isn’t it? There might be another big event nearer in the future… but this is just what I hear at the castle.” News of Bran’s betrothal would spread soon enough, if Lady Tarly had already reached Barrowton. Sansa might not even guess he had leaked the news; she’d been blabbing about the bridal cloak in the yard, anyone could’ve heard them. “There might be another Stark even before the Queen’s confinement.”

“A _wedding?_ ” the younger one gasped. The cold was instantly forgotten in the wake of romance. “Oh, I’d pay a dragon to see a grand wedding again! It’s been years since the Smalljon was wed, I was still a girl. Who is it? Lady Sansa? We wondered if Lord Arryn might not be after her, he sent all those troops to her aid—”

“Couldn’t say.” The duplicity had soured his mood. “But I know we’re expecting a party out of the South, and Lady Arya has been throwing herself into the preparations. Toiling over the wedding cloak day and night, she is, otherwise I imagine we might see more of her around the castle.”

When he left the sisters, they were aglow with that particular wedding-related joy exclusive to women, and their speculation had turned to the identity of the bride or groom instead of what Arya was doing with her spare time. Guilt about giving her credit for her sister’s hard work niggled at him. Still, it might be worth it if it stopped the talk about her and Gendry. With luck, the Starks would approve.

Little Ned hopped into the cart on his way back up to the castle, as was becoming the habit. Today he’d been hard at work toting bowls of broth to the sick. The reek of beef and onions drifted to Edd’s nose. “Where to today, Lord Commander?” Ned chirped. It amused Lord Umber to pretend Edd was his personal driver, and it amused Edd to comply.

“How does the Reach sound, m’lord? Could do with a bit of sunshine.” The winter sun was completely behind the castle now, and would not show its face again for another twelve hours. A slacker, that sun. What other creature in nature got to sleep away half the day?

“Father always said the Reach smelled bad,” Ned pouted. “Let’s go to Dragonstone, where our Queen makes her seat! Maester Godwin thought there were more dragon eggs hidden away there, down in the mines, and any man who braved those dark tunnels to find one could make his fortune in a day.” The cart bounced as Ned gesticulated.

“Can’t reach Dragonstone on a cart. Another time? For my part, I’m not up for much more than a bath and a horn of ale before council.” News of tonight’s meeting had gone out to the King and Queen’s advisors shortly after Jon left him to read Lady Dustin’s letter. Somehow, in the confusion, Edd had been included in the gathering of notable lords. Lady Dustin was a stranger to him, but he knew her lands lay in the direction of the wolfswood, and he misliked all the possible explanations for this meeting he had come up with.

 _“Another_ one?” Ned scrunched up his little freckled nose. “How tedious.” _He sounds about forty,_ Edd thought, smiling. But before long he was kicking the front of the cart, bored, and he was back to being ten again. _He needs another boy to spend time with, to run wild around the castle and throw snowballs at old Lord Manderly and plague the Maester with childish insolence. Ryon Forrester is still a child, and Lady Mormont is a girl._ It would be a good few years before Ned would want female companions, and until that time, Edd could look forward to chasing him around unless another boy his own age was found to entertain him. _Shame Little Sam isn’t a bit bigger._ He wondered how old Dariya’s boy was.

“Did your father ever talk about sending you away to foster somewhere?” Might be he could pawn the boy off on another lord, someone who could teach him to be head of a house, or maybe a knight. Would Ser Jorah want a ward? That bore thinking upon.

“He wanted to send me to Harrion Karstark, who would’ve been Lord of Karhold after his father. But then he died.” The kicks increased in strength and frequency. The mule began to complain, braying almost loud enough to drown out Ned’s complaints. “And then his brothers died. Alys doesn’t need a squire, she can barely lift the family _sword_.”

Wistfully, Edd focused on Winterfell’s gate, still too far off to end the conversation. Why hadn’t he just taken a nap in his spare time? “Well, I’ll speak to Jon. Maybe he can set you up as a ward for Cley Cerwyn, or one of those Riverlands lords—”

“Why not you?” Ned piped up. “I could be _your_ squire!”

 _Definitely should’ve taken a nap._ “That’ll be a fine sight. Lord of the Last Hearth, descendent of an ancient and venerable house, polishing armor for a fisherman’s son from Gulltown. Will you want my sword first, or my helm? Wait a moment—haven’t got one of those.”

“I’m _serious_ ,” Ned whined. “And if you need a helm, you can have mine. It’d fit. You’re not very big.”

If Ned hadn’t been a lord, Edd might’ve had a different retort in mind; but he was, and deserved to be treated as such. Were all children so irritating? The knowledge that Sam would have to deal with his own son’s impertinence in a few years heartened him. “I’m not like to take on such a cheeky squire, am I? Hobb never gives me any lip.”

“Hobb doesn’t have enough fingers to polish your armor. Oh, please, Lord Commander? _Please?_ I’ll be a good squire, I’ll keep your sword sharp and tend your horse and bring you wine at table. I’d much rather be with you than silly old Lord Cerwyn. All he does is drink and dice and tease the ladies.” Ned paused. “And his moustache is stupid.”

Snorting with mirth, Edd glanced back into the wagon, where Ned knelt in expectation. Cley Cerwyn’s facial hair _was_ unfortunate, it must be said. “Your confidence in me surpasses everyone else’s, I’m afraid. What would your people think to see you serving a man of such poor heritage? I’m still a squire myself.”

“Really?”

“Really. I served Ser Yonos Coldwater as a boy. When he told me I wouldn’t amount to anything, I joined the Watch.”

He thought that bit of honesty would be the end of it, but he had underestimated Ned’s persistence. “Well he was wrong, wasn’t he? You’re Lord Commander, and King Jon’s right hand! And I’ve never heard of any Coldwater.”

As they argued like two fishwives, their mule had made its diligent way to the castle wall. It stamped and brayed, impatient for the gate before them to wrench itself out of the frozen ground and grant them entry. Edd could relate. “Cold water is what you’ll get if you keep bringing this up. Perhaps in the middle of the night.”

“ _Please?_ ” wheedled the boy, ignoring Edd’s discomfort. His tone hinted he might clasp his hands, as if in prayer, at any moment. The guards didn’t need to see that.

“I said, it wouldn’t be right. I have Hobb, and you’ll have a real lord who can teach you what you need to know. Not Lord Cerwyn, if you don’t want, but someone else. Even Jon, maybe. You’ll forget me soon enough, squiring for a king.”

At least he knew enough not to speak ill of Jon in Edd’s presence. As they rolled through the creaking gates, the mule shied and complained loudly. _Me too, friend, me too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all the excitement last chapter, with Talla's abduction and everything, I wanted a more calming slice-of-life for this update. Hope you are all satisfied with the adventures of Edd and Ned!  
> I know Edd supposedly joined the Watch to get women, per GRRM, but he also likes to make jokes to deflect attention from himself. I think my version (lack of other options) is probably closer to the truth.  
> With luck, I'll have a quicker update next time since my beloved Colts are now out of the playoffs 😅😭 Next time we'll sit in on yet another council meeting, which will (hopefully) be more interesting than Edd is anticipating. Lady Dustin does have news, but so does Jorah...


	24. Jorah III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers flare as the Starks and their allies make battle plans. Jorah frets about keeping secrets from his queen. Qhono has an interesting proposition.

“What a fine sunset,” Maester Wolkan sighed. “A pity it comes so early in this season. Every winter I swear I will remember the chill of the air, the frost in my beard, when summer comes; but every summer I forget, and when the snow falls I am taken by surprise. Tell me, Ser, does one ever grow used to such cold?” He lingered at the frosty window, staring out at the deep red sunset, overlapped with wisps of hazy purples and pinks and broad swaths of orange. Night fell fast in the North. In ten minutes more, the sky would be deepest blue, with only a shining sliver of bronze on the horizon to hint at what had come before.

“I am not the best person to ask, Maester, after my many years in Essos. How long have you been in the North?”

“Many years for me, too,” he agreed, toying with his chain. “Last winter I was in service at the Dreadfort, but the season was short and mild. Before that, the Citadel. It spoiled me. I don’t believe I saw a single snowflake in all the years I studied.” A wistful smile. “And before that, of course, I was still at home—”

Jorah shifted from foot to foot. “Didn’t you say you had news for me, Maester?”

“Oh yes, quite so.” Wolkan at last tore himself from the colorful spectacle outside his window, patting absently at his robes. He seemed surprised to find his rooms so drab and colorless. “That book you wanted from the Citadel— _Lives of the High Septons_ , was it?”

“ _The Life and Times of High Septon Maynard_ was the full title, I believe.”

“Close enough for Dornish work, as we say in Oldtown. I’ve heard back from Archmaester Ebrose. Your tome of choice was sent North several weeks again, care of—” Wolkan squinted at a scroll on his desk. “Delena Florent and family. Must be part of the Tarly girl’s retinue. They should be due at Barrowton on a ship called the _Fair Wynafryd_ … right about now, if my estimate is correct.” Wolkan rubbed at one prominent ear, eyes skimming the rest of the letter. The other end of the scroll rolled off the desk and unspooled on the floor. For Wolkan to finish the whole thing and give his gist would be more time than Jorah had to spare. Already he was impatient to be off to the council meeting.

“That is welcome news. Would you mind setting it aside for me when it arrives? I imagine the Citadel sent other books as well?” Everything he knew about Wolkan suggested that he could not resist the temptation to order more books.

The Maester took a sly sidelong glance at the letter. “Ah—a few more. Since they were already taking the trouble to ship that one, and all. Lord Brandon suggested we obtain replacements for a few tomes that were destroyed in the library fire, and the Hand had requests of his own…”

The tension in his upper back relaxed. A whole trunk of books would arouse much less suspicion than one by itself. Because for all the time that had passed since his conversation with Sam, he had no better idea of how to break the news of Jon’s true heritage to him. 

Worried that the relief in his voice would betray him, Jorah covered a pause in the conversation by adjusting his gloves. “Will you be coming with me to the council meeting, Maester?”

“Oh, not tonight.” The letter rolled tightly back onto itself at one twich of Wolkan’s hand. It disappeared into his robes too fast for Jorah to make out more of the text. “Your Missy has graciously offered to fill me in on the details later. I’ve still to visit the poor souls in quarantine at the Last Hearth camp, and feed the ravens to boot. If it weren’t dark so early I’d do that first, I’m liable to come back to my things covered in their droppings… the ravens do like to show their dismay in that way.” He crossed to a battered wooden cabinet and withdrew a cloak of black wool. “Was that all, Ser?”

“It was. ‘Til the morrow,” Jorah said, ducking his head in respect. 

Outside the Maester’s Turret, he found Qhono lurking among the shubbery. Jorah sighed. To a man, the Dothraki held deep-rooted suspicions of the “raven men,” as they called Wolkan and Samwell, relegating them to the same category as red priests and _maegi_. On the field of battle, he’d seen Qhono eviscerate an anointed knight without breaking a sweat, but the man would not set foot in Wolkan’s tower for love or money.

“You can show yourself, Wolkan is staying in.” Qhono emerged from the bushes, spiderwebs clinging to his furs. Out of the corner of his eye, Jorah glimpsed a serving maid eying Qhono’s broad chest with appreciation. When her eyes drifted away to meet Jorah’s, and found him watching her, she scampered. Girls used to look at him like that, too, but those days were gone. He still got long, slow looks, but the women they came from were older and less easy to fool.

As they turned to head back towards the Great Keep, he said, “That girl was intrigued by you. Are Westerosi women not to your liking?” Dothraki men were split down the middle on Daenerys’ looks—while some found her shining hair and bright complexion thrillingly exotic, others felt her paleness was not quite human. Overall opinion in the Dothraki camp held that Westerosi women were doughy-faced, pop-eyed, and—even more unforgiveably—frigid. Still, he had never known Qhono to turn down an offer.

Now his friend looked after her, still loitering in the corner of the yard, and scoffed. “Her? No spirit.”

Jorah chuckled. “A man of taste,” he praised. “I prefer someone with a bit more fire, too.”

“Fire?” Qhono raised an eyebrow. “The _khaleesi_ …”

“Is married,” he declared. “I was referring to my wife Lynesse.” And she had indeed been fiery, he recalled, almost out of control sometimes. No man could ever make her happy, but oh, it had been fun to try for a while.

“You have a wife?!”

“I did, for a time,” he admitted. “Lynesse… left me.” For the hundredth time since he came to Winterfell, he wondered if she was alive, if she was well and happy. Did he want her to be? He hoped so.

Qhono nodded as if he knew exactly what was going through his head, though the man had never occupied himself with a single woman for longer than a few weeks as long as Jorah had known him. “Women! The Great Stallion created horses to serve us and women to entertain us, and what is good in one is good in another. A _khal_ has no use for a meek mount, so why would he trouble himself with a dull woman?” He clucked his tongue in sympathy. “Your Leenesse, she was willful?”

“Too much so, even for me.” His wife was sweetness itself when pleased, but a moment’s boredom or discomfort turned her very nasty. He could bear her sharp tongue and her quick and accurate throwing arm; no, it was the unfaithfulness that finally soured him on her charms.

Qhono looked to him as if expecting more, but when Jorah did not reply, he let it be. “That girl you introduced me to, blood of your blood. _She_ is very spirited. More like a Dothraki than the rest of these snow maidens.”

Against his better judgment, Jorah’s mouth curled into a reluctant smile. “Snow maidens? I did not know you were so poetic.”

“Lyanna the Andal suggested it. She asked, what was our word for your people? And I told her ‘milk men’ because you have no color. She found that insulting.” He smiled more fondly than he had any right to. “She said we should at least call your women ‘snow maidens’ because it is more polite.”

Qhono might not realize know how florid “snow maiden” sounded in the tongue of Westeros, but it still made Jorah grit his teeth. Lyanna was _fifteen!_ Far too young for male attention. A betrothal, perhaps, might be appropriate; but she was so _tiny_. Girls hadn’t been that small when he was young, certainly. His cousin should be giggling with her friend Alys and sneaking kisses from Lord Brandon, not seeking out the company of a man twice her age and size. Maege would be apopleptic.

No, he could not allow this to continue. If Qhono had sneakily learned enough of the Common Tongue to talk to his cousin, this took precedence over any war council. “I’ve told you once, Lyanna is still a girl by our reckoning. She is too young for a man’s attention. Leave her be.”

“I will,” Qhono agreed, and Jorah wondered for a moment if he had misunderstood, but then he went on. “Lyanna the Andal is not ripe for marriage yet. Childbirth would kill her. But in a few years, when she has a woman’s figure…” He trailed off. “Well, may the Great Stallion keep me from the nightlands if I let someone else steal her away.”

 _How reassuring._ Jorah narrowed his eyes. “You mean to stay in Westeros after the _khaleesi_ is secure on her throne?”

A thread of spiderweb detached itself from Qhono’s shoulder as he shrugged. It danced away in the stiff breeze before disappearing against the backdrop of snow. “She is our _khal_ of _khals_. Where else would I go? I can still ride here, if any suitable mounts can be found in this country. Lyanna has told me about the Rills—”

“And another thing,” he interrupted. Thinking better of it, he dragged Qhono over to a slushy gray corner of the yard. This was too sensitive a matter to discuss in the open, even in Dothraki, even if the Northerners paid them no more attention than the chickens pecking around their feet. “My cousin is a highborn woman. You ought to address her as Lady Mormont.”

The command angered Qhono, as he feared it would. With stony eyes he said, “She has invited me to use her first name. Says Lady Mormont is her mother.”

“And I am saying it is inappropriate.”

Qhono squared his stance and fingered his _arakh._ “I do not take orders from anyone but the _khaleesi_.”

“Consider it a friendly request, then.” He did not allow Qhono the courtesy of a retort. “Come along to the council with me. Perhaps my cousin will be there.”

“I will not,” he grumbled, crossing his bulky arms over his chest in demonstration of his disagreement. Jorah noted, however, that he took the opportunity to rub some warmth into his arms. “The khaleesi has given me duties elsewhere. ‘Lady Mormont’ can fill me in tomorrow.”

 _That went about as well as it could’ve,_ he reflected after they parted. He might not be able to stop this courting of Lyanna, but so far the Dothraki had followed the _khaleesi_ ’s edict to respect the northwomen’s wishes, and Qhono had agreed that she was too small to take a husband quite yet. Lyanna did not seem the type to be talked into anything she did not want, either. _Just like her mother._

Besides, he had bigger problems now. How to tell Jon he had wed his aunt? How to tell Daenerys that Jon was not only her nephew, but a rival claimant? In Essos she would’ve thrilled to learn she had living family, but now… Sam had not been able to recall word-for-word what Septon Maynard had to say about Rhaegar and his annulment. Would it stand up to a Council of Faith? If not, where did that leave them? As a Targaryen, Daenerys would be inured to the idea of marrying a close family member, and would not take it so poorly, but the reverse might not be true. Certainly Jorah himself would not have been pleased to wed his Aunt Maege. _Well,_ he thought, _I have a few more days to think about it yet._ Surely in a few days, he could come up with the solution that had eluded him for weeks.

As the last to arrive at the council meeting, Jorah was not afforded pride of place or, in fact, a seat. Ned Stark’s old solar had never held so many people before. The royal couple was sitting comfortably, flanked by Missandei and Grey Worm on one side and Lord Commander Tollett on the other, but everyone else had been forced to make do with less than stellar accomodations. Lord Tully huddled against the wall next to the drafty window, as was becoming his habit; he’d come prepared this time with a thick cloak and hot mulled wine. The Stark girls were crammed into a single high-backed chair, Arya perched on her sister’s lap. Tyrion had claimed a ratty footstool for himself, but upon glimpsing Jorah, got to his feet and offered it up with a sweeping gesture. “Age before beauty,” he said with the air of someone making a great concession.

 _Why didn’t I dunk Tyrion into the sea when I had the chance?_ Jorah could not, in all honesty, recall. “I will stand.”

“Yes, there you stand. Your house words, I think?”

“We can all make jokes about our house words, so let’s assume we’ve done so and move on,” Jon snapped. “To start with, I’ve had a raven from Lady Dustin. Bran, your bride has arrived in the North, but we obviously can’t have her coming this way _now_. I will suggest that she and her companions remain guests of Barrow Hall for the moment. You can send for her after the battle.”

“If we live that long,” muttered Arya.

“We _will_ live.” The _khaleesi_ ’s voice would cut steel, if it were any sharper.

Another man would have said something there, Jorah thought, reassured his sister or asked after the safety of his bride; but Bran was content to gaze into the fire. _Lady Tarly will not find happiness with him, King’s heir or no._ Jorah had offered his own Reach-born bride undying love, if not riches; her cousin Lady Tarly could not even expect that much. The whole arrangement left Jorah with deep misgivings.

But those would have to wait. Jon already looked restless at the interruption. “At the end of her letter, Lady Dustin mentions they have already seen dozens of refugees from the wolfswood and expect more. Barrowton’s stores were sufficient for the pre-winter population, but with the deluge of smallfolk they are feeling the strain. She requests aid.” He glanced meaningfully at his friend Lord Commander Tollett. “Edd…”

“You joking?” he scoffed. “I’ve seen wildling villages better stocked than we are.” All heads turned sharply in his direction, which seemed to throw him. Ill at ease, he continued. “We can’t afford it, ah, _Your Grace_. ‘Course, Lady Dustin is welcome to come pick over the remains of the cellar once those icy fuckers are done with us.”

“Tollett,” Davos warned, but Jon was already onto the next item.

“Lady Dustin will be advised to put everyone except fighting men on three-quarters’ rations,” he bellowed. “Ser Jorah, I believe you have the next order of business.”

 _Already?_ He sighed inwardly. The news he bore would be far from welcome. He groped in his pocket for the scroll, though he could’ve recited it from memory by now. “Reports from Bear Island and the Stony Shore are just as dismal, I’m afraid. Those smallfolk who dwelt in the western wolfswood are fleeing the mainland in great numbers. Bear Island has accepted many, but others have been captured by Ironborn.” Gasps of shock and dismay. “Still more have willingly gone aboard the Iron Fleet as thralls, rather than die of starvation or… worse.” Feelings of guilt tugged at his chest. Fleetingly, he wondered if any of the souls he had sold into slavery had made their way to Meereen and freedom.

“They have gone _willingly?_ ” Sansa pulled herself forward in her chair, fingers digging into the left armrest, a frown on her face. Arya slid sideways off her lap, knocking against the other armrest. “To be _thralls?_ Not even salt wives, or oarsmen?”

Sighing, Daenerys shook her head. “We saw a similar situation in Meereen. Those too old to make a new life for themselves chose to remain in bondage rather than beg in the streets. I will not say I understand their decision, but even a queen cannot decide everything according to her own whims.”

“Some of them may find peace in it,” Tyrion suggested from his footstool. “A skilled tradesman would be very valuable in the Islands.”

“And if there were any skilled tradesmen along the Stony Shore, I might feel reassured,” his wife sniped back. “As it stands, I am deeply concerned for the fate of our _unskilled_ men, and all of our women.” She turned to the corner where her brother was slouching next to Lord Commander Tollett, who was following the marital tiff with interest. “Jon. You know what Theon was like when he was young, and he’s far from the worst of them. Isn’t there something we can do? A ransom, perhaps? Or can Bear Island field a larger naval presence?”

“If we had ransom money we’d buy food.” The king’s patience was wearing thin. “Lyanna has instructed her castellan to welcome any refugees they receive, but what ships they have are reserved for the defense of the island itself.”

Seeing no sympathetic crack in the kingly façade, Sansa appealed to the Lord Commander next. “Does the Watch have any ships that could be borrowed on a temporary basis, just to ferry the smallfolk back and forth between Sea Dragon Point and Bear Island?”

“’Fraid not, m’lady, it’s Eastwatch that had the ships. Believe me, if there were any at the Shadow Tower I’d not be showing my face round here.”

In her distress, Sansa had nearly fallen out of her chair. Her sister, legs folded to her chest, nestled in behind her. “Your Grace,” she pleaded, turning at last to the queen, “Do you have _any_ other allies who might spare a ship or two, or lend us coin to ransom the smallfolk who’ve already gone over to the Ironborn?”

Daenerys, who looked mildly surprised that Sansa had spoken to her, tore herself out of a reverie. _Remembering Meereen,_ Jorah guessed. She was wearing the same face she used to put on as she heard petitions. “If Yara had lived, we might have worked something out,” she lamented, drumming her fingers on her chair. “She agreed to stop their raping and pillaging when she pledged to me, at least in Westeros. But now… her uncle has cast his lot in with the usurper, and I’ve no idea where Theon has gone.”

She might’ve gone on, but Sansa spoke first. “ _Yara_ agreed to stop reaving? Truly?”

“Of course, else I would not have accepted her. But that’s not a topic for today. No, I have no allies on that side of continent. Lord Uller sailed up the Narrow Sea, and House Redwyne ceased contact after Lady Olenna’s death. Possibly Lord Uller would lend some coin, but by the time he gets here…” Daenerys spread her hands. “If you have another idea, I would hear it now. At some point we must move on.”

Silence. Sansa cleared her throat.

“My queen… if I might make a suggestion.” Shadows stirred in the corner, parting long enough for Lord Tully to show his pinched face. “This will not be helpful to those in the wolfswood, but Bear Island got me thinking. South of White Harbor there are three islands: Longsister, Sweetsister and Littlesister.”

“Charmingly named, perhaps, but Her Grace does not need a geography lesson,” said the Hand. “Although if we are discussing sisters, my squire did tell me an excellent joke about a pair who visited a sept on Maiden’s Day…”

“No one’s interested,” snapped Lord Tully, and the Lord Commander snorted to himself. “The Three Sisters lay in my nephew Lord Arryn’s territory, not far from the North’s largest port. So far the army of the dead has not troubled the East. Perhaps instead of waiting for it, those smallfolk who would be in similar danger could take refuge on the Sisters for a time, if Robin would have them.”

“Oh yes, dear little Lord Robin. Best hope none of the smallfolk look at him the wrong way, lest they earn a trip out the Moon Door,” Tyrion muttered into his ale.

“I think it’s an excellent idea, Uncle,” Sansa shouted over her husband. “Let’s write him, and both sign it.”

“If he is not willing to accept the smallfolk out of basic charity, we could promise a small contingent of highborn hostages as a show of good faith,” Daenerys mused. “Second sons, leaders of cadet branches, and the like. If we wish to keep Northern power structures in place in the event of a major loss of life, they will have to go somewhere.”

“Which brings me to strategy.” The spring in Jon’s step suggested he had reserved all his energy for this moment. He whipped out a length of rolled leather and spread it on the floor in the center of the room; a detailed, spectacular, and old map of the North was painted upon it. Very old. _Queenscrown was not a ruin yet when this was painted,_ he realized; a shining golden crown marked its position on the map. The spidery finger of Widow’s Watch reached out for Jorah, beckoning. Tyrion settled his footstool over the island of Skagos.

As the others crowded around, Jon hunkered down in the Neck. One by one he placed a handful of carved wolf pieces onto the map around Winterfell. “Lord Seaworth?” he prompted, and the man brought him a clacking linen sack. Dragons and fish and mermen spilled forth, falcons and bears, sentinel trees and battle axes, along with a few hastily carved horses Jorah assumed were meant to represent the Dothraki.

“Last we saw, the army of the dead had Deepwood Motte surrounded,” Jon boomed, drawing a crescent in the wolfswood with his finger. “Many of the wights were destroyed there, thanks to our Queen’s efforts, but there are still plenty left to trouble us. Bran, how many would you say?”

“Some two-thirds still walk the earth,” Bran announced, to general cursing. “And they’ve been replenished with Glover troops, and Ironborn killed when the castle was retaken. Most of the smallfolk fled the area, but those who remained are marching with them now as well.”

“Do you know how fast they are moving?” Daenerys asked sharply. “Can you see, right now, what they are doing?” In her delicate fingers she grasped a dragon piece, worrying her thumb over its midsection.

“It is hidden from me,” Bran demurred. “Viserion is easier to find… He’s near the ocean, soaring over great cliffs. Karhold, I’d say, or thereabouts.”

“In that case,” Jon continued, “We can only assume they are heading south independently. The question is whether they will head straight for Winterfell or take Torrhen’s Square first to increase their numbers. If you have some consciousness of the army of the dead, Bran, the Night King is sure to know most of the North has holed up here. At most, we may have another week or two.” He slammed a piece of wood, carved to look like a snowflake, into a section of the eastern wolfswood.

“I doubt Lord Uller and his troops will be here within the week,” murmured his _khaleesi_. She reached into the bag proffered by Davos, felt around, and withdrew a carved piece in the shape of a flame. It and two more of its fellows were settled on White Harbor.

“Then they’ll be getting an unpleasant surprise when they do arrive. We cannot afford to worry about that.”

“What of Lady Tarly? Is she bringing an escort?” Missandei piped up. “Half a hundred warm bodies could be the difference between victory and defeat. Even if she stays at Barrowton herself, perhaps…”

“House Tarly is known for its martial prowess,” Jorah agreed. _Samwell excepted._ “Let us hope they will agree to join us.”

“At a guess, Ser Colin will bring a few household knights at least. Davos..?”

Ignoring Jon’s outstretched hand, Lord Seaworth frowned into his bag. “What’s the Tarly sigil again, Your Grace?”

“A striding huntsman.”

“This one?” He held out a little wooden archer with spread feet, drawing his bow in search of prey.

The flesh of Jorah's neck broke out in goose pimples. _I have seen an archer dragged beneath the sea by a kraken…_ Was it the memory of Mother Mole that chilled him, or the wind swirling in from Lord Tully’s corner? Was Lady Talla in danger? But no… she was safe in Barrowton, Lady Dustin had confirmed it.

While Jorah was thinking these wooly-headed thoughts, the conversation had left him in the dust. A ring of snowflakes now encircled most the other pieces, while a contingent of wolves, fish, and horses had been raised on a platform above the others, facing outward.

“The most skilled Northern and Riverlands archers, along with the Dothraki, will attack from the outer walls with flaming arrows,” Jon was saying. “Our Queen will take Drogon around the castle and rain fire on them from above. When the wights come over the outer wall, the moat should hold the fire back for a time, but at some point, it will spread to the inner wall. When that happens, the remaining archers can use the tunnel in the inner wall to re-enter the castle.” He pointed to the map. “Attack will almost certainly come from the north or west. In the worst case, the archers can re-enter at the South or East Gate without encountering any foes.”

Despite his misgivings, Jorah found himself drawn back into the meeting. Battle was something he could understand, the Others take the shadowy realm of prophecy. “Who will hold the gates?” he heard himself ask.

“Unsullied will defend the Hunter’s Gate.” Grey Worm’s words drew a little shiver from Missandei. “Free Folk will take cover in the glass gardens to flank the dead when they come through the North Gate.”

“ _Wildlings_ are defending the North Gate?” asked Lord Tully. Cheeks still touched with red from the cold, he scowled, offended at being left out of the planning. “Armed with stone weapons? Do they have _any_ sort of training?”

“They’ve fought wights before,” Jon argued. “And they’ll be given dragonglass, same as everyone else.”

“But to give the defense of the most crucial gate to a group of undisciplined savages…”

“You think your rivermen would do better, then?” Such a challenge to Jon’s authority could not go unanswered. “Men who have never seen a wight before, and can’t bear ten minutes outdoors without complaining of the cold? Does House Tully possess Valyrian steel, my lord?”

“Well—no—”

“Then you are no more qualified than Tormund to lead the charge, are you?” His hand went to Longclaw’s hilt. “Those who are trained to fight at close quarters will be placed in the courtyards, the godswood, and outside the crypts. Edd, I thought of stationing the Watch on the other side of North Gate, opposite the Free Folk.”

“Close to the lichyard that way,” Lord Commander Tollett agreed. “Convenient for burning our bodies, after.”

Jon went on as if he hadn’t heard him. “The Northmen will be placed in the godswood, they’ll fight harder if the Old Gods are watching. Lord Tully, I thought your men and the remaining Vale army could take the yards?”

“Suits me,” said Lord Tully. To his credit, he had recovered from his sulk. “If there is a sept where they could speak to the Seven beforehand, even better.”

“The sept is damaged, but of course you may use it if it brings your men peace,” Jon agreed. “Same for Lord Uller.”

Davos interjected with a frown. “What of the smallfolk, Your Grace? Where will they go?”

“As many as possible will help hold the walls. Others can cover the non-combative tasks, such as fetching arrows, putting out fires, bringing water and food to those who are fighting… Including the women,” he added before Arya could open her mouth. “They have no more to fear from the wights than men do. I don’t think we could hold you or Lyanna back, in any case.” Creases of worry ringed Jon’s brow.

Arya smiled, looking so like Jorah’s own little cousin that it hurt. “Good. I have been practicing my needlework.”

“Where does that leave the children and the elderly?” Sansa asked, her first words since offering to write to Lord Arryn for sanctuary. “I don’t want to have to put a sword in little Lord Umber’s hand. The Overtons, too… Maizie is only seven, and Rodrik even younger.”

Hesitating, Daenerys caressed her stomach. “That hasn’t been decided yet,” she admitted. “The crypts would be ideal, being underground and all…”

“…If only they weren’t full of dead people,” Tyrion finished.

“The crypts will be sealed,” Jon announced to the gasps of his sisters and brother. “It does not please me, but Father would forgive us if he knew what we faced. I suggest the four of us make a final visit today or tomorrow.”

“But—” Arya protested.

“The entrances—” Bran started.

Jon was having none of it. “We will pay our respects to Rickon one last time, and then the masons will brick it up. If any of us are still here, after, we can always break back in. I don’t think we’ll have any similar trouble from the lichyard. All of the recent Pooles and Cassels died in the South. The older ones won’t be able to… hold together.” His mouth twisted as if he’d swallowed something foul. “But that doesn’t solve the problem of where to put the children.”

“The pantries?” Lord Commander Tollett suggested after a long moment. “If I was going to stare down death, unable to defend myself, I’d like to take a ham with me.”

“Underground, secluded, multiple points of egress…” Jon mused, rubbing his chin. “Not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“That’s what they pay me for,” he said gloomily. Stooping to help collect the carved pieces, his knees let out a loud _crack_. No stranger to cracking joints himself, Jorah made a mental note to suggest a warm compress when the meeting was over.

The North shrank before them as Jon finished rolling up the map. “Thoughts, questions?” he asked as he fastened a leather strap around it.

“What will Rhaegal be doing in all this?” Tyrion almost made it sound offhanded, a curious thought he’d had, instead of the pointed question it was. In it, Jorah sensed a disappointment that the dragon wasn’t being used, even a hint of reproach that the queen had not found someone to tame him. As if it could be helped. _Jon,_ his mind nagged, but Jorah pushed the thought away. Even if Jon could tame a dragon, he could hardly accomplish it in a week.

“Rhaegal _generally_ follows his brother’s lead, but in such a critical situation, I cannot trust that he will not burn friend and foe alike.” Underneath the queen’s steely tone, there was genuine concern for the smallfolk… but also a wistful hope that Rhaegal could ride into battle at her side. “He should be far from the castle on the day in question. A dragon makes his own decisions, but perhaps if we stuff him full of delicacies in the days leading up to the battle, he will fly away and sleep it off in the mountains. If he cannot be tempted, Drogon and I will take a ride and hope that he follows us.” A weak plan, and he could tell she knew it, the way she was staring her Hand down. “I would not keep you from your dinners any longer, but before we go, Jon and I would like to share our thoughts on the succession.”

Jorah’s heart began to pound. Had Sam’s guilt overwhelmed him enough to approach Daenerys of his own accord? _Did he mention he told me?_

But it was Jon who spoke. “I have drawn up a will, in case that I should die,” he said, and any remaining trace of levity was sucked from the room. “I name my son or daughter by Daenerys heir to Winterfell, at least until such time as King’s Landing is taken. If that happens, our child will become Prince or Princess, and formally relinquish their claims in the North. Daenerys and I have _both_ agreed to this.” His dark eyes scanned the room, searching for any hint of disagreement. “Next in line will be Bran, Sansa, and Arya, of course.”

The latter looked about, confused. “Won’t Bran be going to Horn Hill? How’s he going to rule the North from down there?”

“Then he’ll name one of you castellan, or he can formally renounce his position. This isn’t new information. Now if we’re all in agreement…” Jon rumbled, with a roll of his eyes. “Cousin Alys will come after Arya, if none of us survive. There may be others more closely related to us in the Vale, but she is here, and she knows the North.”

“The Karstarks fought _against_ us not two years ago,” Sansa objected. “I have no quarrel with Alys herself, she will make a fine Lady of Karhold, but do you really want to give our home to a house of traitors?”

“It is already done,” Jon barked, resembling no one so much as his direwolf. “Signed and executed this afternoon. If you are so concerned about Karstarks in Winterfell, sister, by all means get started on producing more Starks.” His harsh words stunned her into silence. _A low blow,_ Jorah thought; but he could well understand being exasperated by one’s female relatives.

“Well, I thank you for your vote of confidence,” drawled Tyrion after an uncomfortable pause. “But as we’ve told you all, Sansa and I have not yet decided whether to continue our marriage. It hardly seems productive to sabotage our grounds for seeking an annulment by, ah, how did you put it? Trying to _produce_ _Starks?_ ”

“Then seek an annulment. I care not, but until such time as my sister makes up her mind, I do not want to hear her criticism of my succession plans. My own children will be Targaryens. I cannot continue the line of House Stark by myself.”

No one seemed to want to look at him. “I cannot _believe_ you,” Sansa hissed. For once, her sister seemed to be on her side, darting dark looks at Jon. “Would you prefer that Ramsey had gotten me pregnant? That I’d _done my duty?_ ”

Jon’s face hardened. “Of _course_ not!” he thundered. “I would prefer that Robb was in my place, with his little son or daughter at his feet, and that you were happily married to whoever you wanted, and Arya and Bran free to do as they pleased. I would prefer that Ramsey had never entered our lives at all. You _know_ that. But you only bring me problems, never solutions. Who else _is_ there to inherit Winterfell if all four of us die, which is extremely likely?”

An indignant cough. All turned to face Lord Tully. “Robb—Robb would not have approved of this, Your Grace,” he protested.

“I am not Robb,” Jon replied in clipped tones. “He would have ended this conversation long ago. Everyone out.”

“I—Your Grace?” asked Tyrion, dazed. He leaned forward, half committed to rising, half hoping Jon would revoke his order. His legs dangled over the edge of the footstool.

“OUT!” Jon ordered, at last spurring the assembly to action. “That includes you, Sansa, Arya, Bran. Dany—a moment alone, please. I need to think.”

Unlucky for Jon, most of his personal supporters—Lord Commander Tollett, Ser Davos—retreated from the council in search of dinner. Lord Tully also begged off, citing the need to compose a letter to his nephew Lord Arryn. “A tricky thing, writing to him,” he sighed, lagging in the hallway outside Jon’s solar. “Just as prickly as Lysa but not as smart. There isn’t any reading between the lines with him—and yet, I cannot openly ask him to harbor those who are technically traitors to the Crown. This’ll take hours.” When no one seemed inclined to sympathize, he departed, looking as gloomy as Tollett.

Daenerys stood alone outside the door to the solar, the torch flickering above her head throwing patterns of her restless hands onto the stone floor. It had been years since Jorah had seen her so agitated over someone else. Back then, she’d been wearing a painted leather vest and sandals instead of a wool gown, but the worry written on her face was the same. _What would Drogo think of her new husband, I wonder?_ Not much, probably—but then, Drogo had died of his own foolishness, and Jon had recovered from his. 

To his great surprise, Sansa approached her before he could intervene, looking sympathetic. “He’ll be fine,” she said to the queen, pitching her voice low so that it would not carry. “My brother can be… temperamental, but he always bounces back.”

“I know that. I am his wife.” Sansa might have been a worm crawling underfoot for all the concern Daenerys showed her opinion.

“Yes, but I have never seen the two of you argue. He might not have ordered you away before.”

“The things you do not know about my marriage are as numerous as the stars in the sky.”

“Likewise,” Sansa agreed, but not without ire. “My marriage to Tyrion, such as it is, is no one’s business but ours. I did not care for Jon’s insinuations that I should concern myself with having babies while the rest of you do productive things. I hope you do not share his opinion.”

“As a matter of fact, I do not. I doubt Jon truly thinks that, but at some point, a king will not be questioned. You do bring him new problems, more often than not.”

“ _Someone_ must. Your own advisors hardly speak at all, I have noticed, save for Tyrion. A good leader listens, even when he does not like what he is hearing.”

The daggers shooting from their eyes would have killed an entire host of wights, if made of dragonglass. Jorah thought it wise to intervene. “Missandei and Grey Worm and I do share our opinions with the _khaleesi_ — _in private_ ,” he stressed. “Not before the entire council.”

Sansa’s head snapped up, eyes widening at his sudden appearance. “Ser Jorah, I—I thought you had gone with my uncle,” she stalled. “But I’m glad you are still here. I meant to ask after Lyanna. I haven’t seen much of her since she came back from Deepwood Motte. Is she well? Lord Glover often spoke of her, I know she was close with the family.”

 _I know what you are doing,_ he thought, _trying to distract me,_ but he answered anyway. “As well as she can be. Keeping to herself… mostly. It seems she has spent some of her time tutoring one of Daenerys’ blood riders in the Common Tongue.”

“Has she?” Daenerys blinked in surprise, her fury at Sansa diverted for the moment.

“Oh yes… Qhono has been hinting about a little crush, but who knows, perhaps he is just trying to get under my skin.” Jorah offered a thin smile.

“Qhono? Hmm.” A thoughtful expression came over her face. Jorah misliked that look; it meant she was considering it.

“I don’t know Qhono, except by sight,” Sansa said, gaze darting back and forth between the two of them. “Is he worthy of Lyanna?”

“It doesn’t matter, she is _fifteen_ ,” he protested. “Half his age!”

“Better men than Qhono have ignored that small fact before,” Daenerys said. Her tone was level, but she snuck an amused look at him while Sansa was distracted.

“Nothing wrong with an older man, if his character is good,” said Sansa briskly. “Boys her own age would lack her maturity.”

“I imagine he will treat her well enough… in _several_ years.” Rationally, he knew he had no ground to stand on, but his whole being protested at the idea of his little cousin, his _blood_ , binding herself to Qhono for life before she even had a chance to experience it. Both ladies before him had been married off at young ages to men they did not want or ask for. Why were they advocating for another such match now?

At that moment, Jon poked his head out of the solar, ending yet another brewing argument. “Dany,” he breathed, his face lighting up to find her close at hand. “Would you—can we—I’d like to speak to you alone before the council reconvenes.”

“Of course.” She beamed. “Jorah, Lady Sansa—if you’ll excuse me.” The door closed on Jon’s worried face before he even had a chance to wonder why his wife and sister were scrapping.

The conversation had started off with so much hopeful potential, Jorah was loath to see it go to waste. His _khaleesi_ might be the first woman in Jon’s life, but Sansa was undoubtedly the second, and they would have to learn to tolerate one another. Perhaps a small push in the right direction… “You know, Daenerys was married very young,” he murmured. Sansa was still staring at the closed door. “Maybe _too_ young. Her first child was born dead. Lyanna is even smaller than she was… I worry for her.”

“The queen had a stillbirth?” Sansa’s sharp eyes landed on him, calculating. “I know my Aunt Lysa had several. It made her… hmm. The sister my mother described to me did not match the woman I met at the Eyrie.”

“I’m not surprised. It was terribly hard on the _khaleesi_. Only hatching the dragons brought her out of it. They made her the queen she is today.”

“Well, she is older now. Hopefully she and Jon will be luckier.” A pause. “Did she really free the slaves, in Meereen?”

“She did. They call her _mhysa_. That means ‘mother’ in the tongue of Slaver’s Bay.”

“They must love her there.” The corners of Sansa’s mouth turned up, just a touch. Jorah wondered if he was imagining it. “I must bid you goodnight, Ser. Give Lyanna my sympathies. My uncle will pout if I do not help him write to Lord Arryn, he’s so touchy.”

“Your uncle, or your cousin?”

“Both, I suppose. Still. It makes for a nice change, doesn’t it, to know exactly what someone is thinking and feeling?”

A search of the castle yielded no evidence of his cousin’s whereabouts. Sansa’s good wishes, as much as Qhono’s interest, had spurred Jorah to check on her following the council meeting, but she was not in her chambers, nor with her friends Alys and Wylla, and her men had not seen her since the afternoon. The godswood was empty (not that he had really expected to find her _there_ ); ditto the forge, where she sometimes went to chat with Lady Arya and annoy the blacksmith. Perhaps it was not the best use of Jorah’s time, but with the knowledge that battle was on the horizon, he did not want to pass up any opportunity to spend time with the last of his family.

 _If I was a girl of five-and-ten, where would I be?_ Jorah stopped in the yard to orient himself. A handful of smallfolk, sullenly chopping firewood next to him, rained good-natured insults on him while he waited. What would he have done with a spare evening at fifteen? _Flirted with girls,_ he recalled, rubbing his chin, _nicked food from the kitchen._ Jorah had sprouted up like a weed when he hit his teens; unfortunately, that trait seemed to have skipped Lyanna. _Thrown snowballs at Maege, maybe. Visited the stables?_ But Lyanna’s mount would be on Bear Island. Did she have some other pet? Then he knew.

The dog-stench assaulted his nose even before he reached the kennel door, but a shriek of laughter from inside told him he’d found his cousin at last. She sounded happy, carefree, like the girl she was instead of the great lady she tried to be. Ducking under the low lintel, he went in, a cacophony of barks announcing his entrance.

Lyanna was covered in dirt and nearly invisible in her dark dress. Ghost’s massive body was curled around her little form, playfully nipping at her fingers as she dissolved into giggles. She looked almost a pup herself. As Jorah’s eyes adjusted to the dim, he saw that she had made little plaits in the fur around Ghost’s neck. Hadn’t Maege used to do that, with the mangy old cat she kept for a pet? A ripple of nostalgia went through him.

The other dogs _woof_ ed a warning and Lyanna turned to face him, her eyes flashing in the light from the doorway. “Oh, it’s you,” she announced, deflating. The direwolf rose on its haunches. “Sssh, it’s only cousin Jorah. Don’t get spooked—there, good boy,” she crooned. Ghost settled back down, nose on his paws, but his tail continued to twitch a fitful reproach.

“You seem very well acquainted,” he remarked. “I didn’t think a wolf would be so friendly to those without Stark blood.”

“Oh, he loves all of Jon’s friends.” Lyanna raked her fingers down Ghost’s spine, and his red eyes closed in lazy content. Still, he watched Jorah through the two slits. “He sits at the Queen’s feet when she brushes her hair in the morning, and he slobbers all over Tormund and Lord Commander Tollett.”

“He is a fine judge of character, then.”

“Animals usually are,” she agreed, stroking the wolf’s white pelt. Her hand came away covered in fur. “A shame I can’t have a bear.”

“You are Lady Mormont, you can have whatever you desire.”

“Perhaps I could… but a bear is too impractical.” She sounded so like her mother that Jorah had to smile. “The coin we would spend on training one could be better used for other things. So many people have come to us from the Stony Shore since we burned Deepwood Motte, I worry about feeding them all.” Picking up on her rising anxiety, Ghost gave her hand a reassuring lick.

“It’s the same everywhere. We spoke about it a bit in the council meeting—Lord Tully suggested sending the eastern smallfolk to the Sisters for a while. I’m not sure how many will wish to go, but there is an option for them, at least.” The wheezy breathing of dogs filled the air while Jorah decided how to best approach the topic. “We also discussed the succession,” he went on cautiously. Lyanna and Alys had become close over the last few weeks. Whether Sansa could ever be brought to tolerate the idea of her as Lady Stark, he didn’t know, but he had a feeling she might think better of it if his cousin vouched for her. 

“Oh yes, I’ve already given the king and queen my thoughts on that. If I fall in battle, you are to be Lord of Bear Island again.” Ghost bared his teeth, showing what he thought of _that_ idea.

His thoughts full of Starks and Karstarks, Jorah did not immediately realize what she was implying. “Lyanna—I, I thank you, but there was a reason I left in the first place.”

Shrugging, his cousin picked fur off of her gown. “I know all about that. But the queen thinks you have atoned, and you were pardoned. There is no danger you will ever sell slaves again, is there?” She dared a tiny glance up at him, but he did not hold it.

Shame bubbled up hot inside his chest. Memories of Daenerys’ crestfallen face, Ned Stark’s stern voice sentencing him to exile, his father’s horrified letter from the Wall… he’d burned that one in the fireplace. Maege had not even had the grace to look surprised. “Look what you’ve done to yourself,” she’d spat at him when his crimes were revealed. “What you’ve done to our _house_ , Jorah, and all for some Southern bit of fluff.”

Well, Qhono at least could not be called a “bit of fluff,” that was one point in his favor. “There is _no_ danger of that,” he reassured his cousin. “But I do not deserve it, and you mustn’t think of dying yet. I’d say you’ll outlive us all, and have strong little cubs to inherit Bear Island.” He thought for a moment. “In _many years_ ,” he stressed.

If she did harbor any growing affection for Qhono, she hid it well. Lyanna wrinkled her nose as if even the idea of marriage and children was abhorrent to her. “Who’s thinking of that _now?_ Other than Lord Brandon, I suppose, with his wedding… and Alys. Yesterday I found her embroidering handkerchiefs with her beloved’s initials, can you believe that? That cloth could be used for bandages, or slings!”

“Is she wooing a Dothraki horseman?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

“No, she likes—” Her flinty little eyes darted to the door and, finding no one skulking there, back to Jorah. “ _Podrick Payne!_ ” she half-whispered, covering her mouth. “I’m just waiting for her to carve ‘Alys + Podrick’ into her bedpost or something. _I_ think he’s a bit dim, personally, but Alys fancies herself in love. Not that she’s ever spoken to him. Mostly she just sighs over him in the training yard.”

Well, Alys was not going to be the level-headed potential heir they hoped for. Sansa would just have to get on with it. “Lady Karstark would do well to put aside her sighing and embroidering for a time,” he agreed, and wiped his slobbery hand on his pants.

“Oh, cousin? Don’t tell anyone I told you that. I do like Alys, even if she’s a bit foolish.”

“Her secret is safe with me.” _Just throw it on the pile with the others,_ he thought, and departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jorah chapters are IMPOSSIBLE, why do I do this to myself? Every other character is easier to write for, even Qyburn. Many thanks to the bottle of red wine that got me through.  
> Are these reasonable battle plans? I have no idea. It doesn't seem likely that they'd engage the army of the dead on open ground, like they did on the show, if they can hide behind walls... but I'm no strategist, and my military history classes were long ago. In any case I'm pretty sure the Dothraki won't be charging into a wall of wights by themselves *rolls eyes*  
> Next chapter, we'll get a much-anticipated taste of battle... but maybe not in the way you're expecting.


	25. Meera II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meera and Roslin scheme to escape Lord Greengood's wrath. Lantern Isle gets some unwelcome visitors.

Meera had been crouching for so long she could not feel her lower legs. _Will I be able to stand, when the time comes?_ she thought ruefully, and tried to rub some feeling back into her calves. All night she and Father had paddled through the swamp to intercept the rivermen, and when the sun was just beginning to peek its head over the horizon—not that they could see it, through the trees—they at last reached the causeway and parted company. That was hours ago—two, three? She’d lost count. All she knew was that her legs had gone numb, she hadn’t had more than five or six hours of sleep in the past two days, and if the Tully entourage didn’t come soon she might turn to stone.

She’d chosen a spot under a fallen tree to keep watch. It afforded a clear view of the causeway, and was out of the rain, but she couldn’t stand all the way up and remain hidden. Rather than get her breeches wet she’d opted to crouch, occasionally leaning against the rotten old trunk for support and to stretch her legs. The trunk was wet, too, though. How quickly she became accustomed again to the comforts of home! Osha would call her soft.

She was also beginning to get bored. They’d left in such haste that she hadn’t even thought to bring her net to catch frogs while she waited. If Father was here he’d be talking her ear off, but she had no company save for Ned Stark’s bones, and she didn’t really feel comfortable talking to those… She stole a glance at the trunk that had been his tomb for so long, now covered with a damp cloth bearing the Stark direwolf. Would he be mad that Father kept him from Winterfell for so long, or feel it was his just comeuppance for burying their long-ago companions under cairns of Dornish stone? In all the years she’d traveled with Bran she hadn’t learned much more about Ned than she knew from her father’s recollections. And now she’d never get the chance to ask him.

But thinking of Bran hurt, so she returned her attention to the causeway.

Near midday, the first chatters and hoots of people drifted through the trees, accompanied by the unmistakeable clip-clop of hooves. Meera had long since accepted that she would get wet and nestled herself into the damp, spongy tree trunk. When she emerged, quick as a snake and covered in peeling wet leaves and green tree-muck, a few children actually screamed. “Mud man!” squealed one tiny boy who couldn’t have been more than four.

“No, stupid, it’s a bog devil!” Regardless, the skinny girl next to him scooped the struggling boy into her arms with a natural grace. She stared, wide-eyed and horrified, as Meera pulled her feet out of the sucking mud.

Meera did not really want to scare the children, but she couldn’t resist having a little bit of fun. “I… am the thing… from the SWAMP!” she intoned, raising her arms menacingly over her head. “Pay my toll or you shall not pass!”

The older girl had cottoned on that they were not in real danger and was squinting at her with suspicion instead, but the tiny boy was still squeaking like a mouse and making frantic motions to get away. “No toll on this end of the causeway,” retorted the girl as she avoided the toddler’s flailing limbs.

Meera smiled. “I know, I’m just having fun with you. We don’t often get visitors here in the Neck. My name is Lady Reed. What’s yours?”

The moment she said “Reed” the girl’s eyes expanded with recognition. “Milady! Beg pardon, I didn’t know you was noble, your breeches—and your, ah, leaves…” She trailed off, looking doubtful.

“I don’t look much like a lady, do I?” she agreed, trying to remember Mother’s lessons in posture and deportment. One of those nice gowns she had packed in her trunk, now far away on Father’s boat, would be handy right about now. “But it’s hard to paddle a boat in a gown!”

_“Merry!”_ A curvy woman with thick, curling red hair emerged from behind a wagon, wearing a face as stern as their heart tree at Greywater Watch. Taking no notice of Meera whatsoever, she seized the hem of her cloak and dabbed at the little boy’s tearful face. “Who said you could hold the little lord, eh? Give him here!” With a huff of indignation, she wrenched the little boy from her arms. Evidently, they were not brother and sister, as Meera had assumed.

A sullen Merry stared back. “Was just saving him from the crannog-lady,” she complained. “He spooked when she came out of the trees, like. I didn’t want him to run t’other way and go into the deep water.”

“She’s right,” Meera offered. She hadn’t meant to get the girl in trouble. “I did appear very suddenly. Good day to both of you, but I’m in haste and need to speak with Lady Tully.”

“Who’re you?” The red-haired woman turned her attention to Meera at last, the boy in her arms now somewhat placated with a sweet from her pocket. “Her ladyship doesn’t have time for an audience with anyone who wanders out of the swamp.”

“I’m Lady Reed, of Greywater Watch,” she explained, beginning to wonder if she should’ve sent Father on this errand instead. “Roslin and I are old friends. I’m sure she’ll want to hear what I have to say, if you’ll only tell her I’m here.”

Those had been the magic words. The lady’s face cleared of all suspicion and she dropped into a hasty curtsy. “Lady Reed! Yes, her ladyship said she met with you just yesterday. Right this way and we’ll have you to her in a trifling. And have you met our darling Hoster?” The screaming child, she now realized, must be Roslin’s son. He looked no more or less remarkable than any child of her acquaintance, but that was all right. Four was a year for learning your letters and how to put on your own clothes, not doing great deeds.

“Hello, Hoster.” Thinking fast, Meera pulled a silly face and tugged out her ears, but that only made him cry again.

Quite apart from the scolding she expected, his red-haired nurse just patted his little head and laughed. “Hoster is a bit high-strung,” she confided. “As befitting his sensitive nature. And the gods only know what the other children have told him about crannogmen.” As if to confirm her own theories, her warm brown eyes swept Meera up and down, looking for any queer discrepancies.

“Checking for webbed fingers?”

“No,” said the nurse at once. _Yes,_ said the flush creeping up her neck.

“But I don’t understand.” Roslin, frowning, disentangled Hoster’s sticky hands from her hair buns. “My husband and his men marched up the causeway just a few moons ago, and no one troubled them. Why are you so certain this Lord Greengood means us harm?”

“Too cowardly to attack fighting men,” muttered Jolyon, wisely not meeting Meera’s eyes.

“I think you’ll find Lord Greengood to be quite fierce, in fact. He’d be happy to tangle with you or anyone else.” _What an oaf._ Rolling her eyes, she turned back to Roslin. “He has no quarrel with rivermen in general, but Freys in particular have earned his everlasting wrath. Your sister Walda had to go disguised through the Neck when she went north to the Dreadfort.”

“Walda was my niece,” she muttered, but said no more.

“I know _you_ consider yourself a Tully,” Meera continued, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, “But Greengood will not. He has been preaching vengeance for King Robb and Lady Catelyn for years. I think he would love nothing better than to mount the head of the Red Bride on his gates.”

“Sssh,” Roslin hissed, covering her son’s ears. “Not in front of the boy!”

“Then send him back to his nurse, if you don’t want him to hear. I don’t want to upset him, or you, but we draw very close to the Greengood lands. I would not be surprised if he had eyes on you since you entered the Neck. We have to decide what to do before you go any further.” Meera squatted down and grabbed a stick from the side of the causeway. In the thick mud she drew a crude diagram. “Father has gone ahead to Lantern Isle. It’s east of the road, maybe a quarter day’s journey. He will have crossed the causeway further north and made it there already, unless he ran into trouble.” _Or unless he fancied a nap, or ran into a cranberry bog and decided to take a moment to harvest some…_ No, she’d just have to pray that Father was with Lord Greengood now, fit and flippant and obstacle-free. Maybe Lord Stark’s spirit would guide him. “If all goes well, he’ll convince him to withdraw his spies and let us pass. Greengood doesn’t like Father much, but he won’t want to go the way of Rickard Karstark.” But her father was no King Robb, and the knowledge pricked at her. If Lord Greengood refused him outright, threw his defiance in his face—would Father have the fortitude to punish him? Would he have the strength? He hadn’t held a blade in decades.

“But you think it won’t go well, or you’d be at Lantern Isle with your father instead of here with us.” Always the voice of pessimism, Jolyon interjected himself with a frown. “Never fought crannog folk before, my lady, but I know enough to realize they won’t form up in tidy lines for us. They’ll be troubling us with arrows, and traps, and worse, or I miss my guess.”

“They might,” Meera agreed through gritted teeth. “So I’ll wager we have few options. I could lead you on a safe path through the swamp, west of the causeway. Greengood’s scouts will stay out of Father’s lands—or at least they won’t attack you there—but it would be dangerous. Everyone would have to go on foot, leaving all your luggage behind. More importantly, I can’t guarantee all of your people would make it. The Neck can be cruel to careless wanderers. Some are like to blunder into sinking sand. And at night, well… the lizard-lions.”

Her companions exchanged a long look, heavy with unspoken worries. Not wanting to intrude, Meera corrected the curve of the causeway with her stick. At last Roslin said, “What are the other options?”

“Return to Greywater Watch with me, and try to get a letter to your lord husband. We’d be happy to have you and your son as guests—and a small retinue, if you wish,” she went on, mentally tallying what was in their stores, “But your people would have to go on ahead, we can’t support such a large group. I’m not sure if you would want that. Or, we can continue heading north and hope Father and I can talk him down.”

“Now wait just a minute—” Jolyon barked.

“Please.” Roslin jiggled the now restless Hoster on her hip. “Is there any reason we can’t simply turn around? Head east when we’re out of the Neck and book passage for my son and I at Saltpans? I’m sure Edmure would understand—”

But Jolyon was already shaking his head, looking mournful. “Not enough food for a return march, my lady, and that’s assuming we make as good of time as we did on the way north. Now the weather’s turned, it’s likely to be even slower going back.”

There was a moment in which all three of them watched Hoster tug at his mother’s hair. Too young to understand the implications of their discussion, his agitation nevertheless grew as the adults around him argued. At last Roslin set him down with instructions to run and find his nurse. “Lord Greengood let my husband pass, and you say he has no quarrel with Tullys,” she murmured, watching her boy scamper away. “Do you think… would he harm my son?”

“I think not. He is Edmure’s son, too, and your husband is well respected in the North. Besides, Lord Greengood will not have reckoned on my being here. His spies will think twice about accosting a party bearing the banner of House Reed. Not so if you come bearing the Tully colors only.”

Her friend looked doubtful, but Jolyon warmed to the idea right away. “That’s a fair idea. I’ll wager most smallfolk are still loyal to their lord, even in these wild lands.” Deferring to a crannogwoman was clearly making him uncomfortable, so he half-turned and addressed the tree next to Meera instead. “You’ve brought such a banner with you, I hope?”

“In my pack,” she assured him. “I’ll ride along with you and Roslin, to lend you respectability.” She could not resist the small jab. Jolyon’s face purpled. “If, ah, you could find me a horse.”

Half a league away, Meera was wondering why she had never learned to ride before this, at Winterfell or the Wall. Growing up in the Neck had bred the assumption that the best way to travel was by boat or, failing that, one’s own feet; but riding had its merits. With the solid, comforting bulk of animal swaying beneath her she felt as tall as Hodor. Was this how the world had looked to him? No wonder he was always so happy. The swamp was lively with sounds of all kinds, whistling wind, birdcalls, some distant splashing that might have been lizard-lions. She felt it boded well for their chances.

On her left, however, Roslin was in distress. She had deferred to Meera and Jolyon’s advice, convinced by their unprecedented agreement, but now they had left the Reed lands her hands were clenched tight around the reins. Meera had the impression she was holding on so tight so she would not tremble. Though Jolyon sometimes made asides to her, she said nothing, eyes tracking the swaying banner of Tully carried before them. Meera herself could scarcely keep her eyes off it; the red, blue, and silver cloth was the only bit of color for leagues around. _Easy enough for Greengood’s scouts to spot,_ she thought uneasily. Her own colors blended right in with the scenery. Once again she wondered why Edmure had even considered asking his wife to pass through the Neck when there was no urgent need.

When she voiced this nagging concern to Roslin, her friend frowned and began digging in her bodice. The two closest guards in their escort, neither of whom looked older than six-and-ten, snuck some very obvious glances at her while she did so. “I did find it odd—before he left, Ed was vehement that we should _not_ accompany him,” Roslin confessed, teeth chattering. “If this summons to Winterfell was a trick from Queen Cersei, the remaining garrison could hold Riverrun under my rule as regent. But then I got his letter—where is it, now,” she mumbled. “I like to keep it close to my heart, you see, but it’s rather—aha! Here it is.” A much-crumpled sheet of parchment, flattened and folded into a thick square, emerged from a space between the ties of her dress. Roslin’s left guard, a thick-necked blond boy, was so engrossed in this picture that he walked into a tree. Meera hid a smile.

Roslin unfolded the parchment and smoothed it against her front. “He said that upon arriving at Winterfell, he received some new information that changed our situation, and I should hasten north with as many of our people as would come. So, I told Jolyon what he wanted, and he started making arrangements…” She shrugged. “He’d just passed through the Neck himself, and like you said, my niece Walda made it through quite unscathed a few years back. I did not question for a moment if it was safe.” Her voice dropped. “Perhaps I should’ve.”

Far from relieving her doubts, Roslin’s explanation only made Meera more tense. She’d been at Winterfell herself, not so long before Edmure started marching that way, and she could think of nothing happening there that would require Roslin’s presence. Quite the opposite, in fact. With the army of the dead soon to descend on the castle, Meera knew she would want her own family as far away as possible. “May I see that letter?” she asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

But it was just as her friend described, a few terse commands with no further illuminating detail, signed “Ed.” She assumed this was the name Lord Tully used with friends and family. She even turned the crinkled parchment over, hoping against hope there would be some sign of a hidden message on the back—nothing. But… “This doesn’t have the Tully seal on it.”

“Oh no, Edmure left that with me,” Roslin said, wringing her hands. “In case I needed to make decisions on his behalf. But it’s our blue wax, you see? He made sure to take some with him in case he needed to send me instructions from afar. I told him—” A sudden gust of icy wind whipped through the column, carrying the scent of snow. Meera’s curls rose and danced around her face. The rivermen around them shuddered and burrowed into their cloaks, muttering imprecations, but she felt her mood lift. Lord Greengood’s scouts could not sneak about unnoticed with a carpet of snow underfoot.

“Feels like it might snow. Let’s bundle up now, shall we?” Meera interrupted, shoving her concern over Lord Tully’s odd behavior to the back of her mind. He had been the Freys’ prisoner for years, some unconventional decisions were to be expected.

With so many layers on, Roslin looked much more like her niece Walda than herself. She pulled her muffler over her nose and shivered. “How much further must we travel before we pass through the Neck, and can camp properly?” she said, her voice muffled under layers of wool. “I thought I was used to the weather, but it seems so much colder than yesterday.”

“Mmm… five leagues to Moat Cailin, perhaps a bit less? It’s a ruin, of course, but it would at least provide some shelter.” Meera was feeling the chill, as well; she’d gotten too used to being cooped up inside the snug walls of Greywater Watch. But she’d dressed for the temperature of the day before, when it had been raining and she could not see her breath. Now it was noticeably colder than even that morning, and she could not say when the change started. It could not have been long. The ditches of stale water that lined the causeway had frozen over, but only just, to judge by the bubbles still evident beneath the surface. Such a steep drop in temperature meant they could expect a severe storm rather than the light dusting she hoped for. _Might be Lord Greengood’s men will stay home,_ she thought hopefully, but it would do them little good if she and the rivermen got stuck. She squinted up at the sky for more clues. A column of boiling clouds rolled by, the pearly white of the sky above her giving way to a blackness the color and thickness of ink creeping insidiously down from the North. _They’re moving awfully fast,_ Meera thought, and prayed that Father was still safe and sound, if not entirely at ease, within Lantern Isle. Blinking, she turned away from the luster of the sky.

Maybe it was the afterimage of the sun, but she thought she caught the glimmer of bronze in the distance. She blinked again. It flickered only a moment before disappearing behind a tree, but it had been enough. “They’re here,” she murmured, hoping her muffler would hide her words from anyone watching from afar. “I just saw a shield.”

The sound of soldiers snapping to attention all around her drowned out Roslin’s low moan of fear. “Hoster…”

“Right behind us,” Meera assured her. The boy was surrounded by an escort of six or seven guards. Young and green, like all those Lord Tully had left, but even a boy of five-and-ten might be taller than her own people. She did not really fear for Hoster’s safety anyway, being the cousin of Bran, Jon, Sansa and Arya. It was her friend she was worried about. Meera drew herself up to her full height. Nobody was going to get a free shot at Lady Tully if she had anything to say about it.

All around them, crannogmen were creeping out of hiding, draped in green and brown and disguising their faces with hoods. Some crawled up from the swamp, where they’d been breathing through reeds; others dropped silently from trees to take the rivermen unawares. Shouts of dismay from the smallfolk mingled with the ring of steel as their guards drew swords, both muffled by the pounding in Meera’s ears. This had been a possibility all along; and yet, some small part of her had clung to hope that her father’s efforts would avert disaster.

“Brothers,” she shouted to her fellow crannogmen, a little too loudly. “My brothers of the Neck. I am the lady Meera Reed, daughter and heir of your lord Howland.” Even to her own ears she sounded nervous. _You killed a White Walker,_ she told herself sternly. _You can speak in front of an audience._ “Lady Tully and her people have my father’s leave to travel through our lands. We came bearing his own banner to show our approval. Why do you trouble us with this delay?”

The way the rivermen were looking at the new arrivals did not fill her with confidence. Teeth bared, lips drawn back tightly over gums, as if they were seeing beasts rather than human beings. At any moment the frightened smallfolk might lash out, throw something, draw a blade and attack, and what was worse, Meera could not even blame them if they did. Attacking a peaceful march on the Kingsroad? How had her bannermen gotten so out of control? The moment trembled on a knife’s edge. She dared not disturb the delicate balance.

When the leader of the crannogmen removed his hood and opened his mouth, Meera felt she might keel over in relief. “Lady Reed! We did not expect to meet you here. Word had it that you were in the far north with Lord Brandon.” Such was the quality of his face, guileless and pink-cheeked, that she could feel the tension of the rivermen dissolving. _Why, he looks no different than anyone in my own village,_ she could feel them thinking. Hardly the specter out of tall tales they had been expecting.

“I have come home,” she said shortly. “And not a moment too soon, for my dear friend Lady Tully came to call. Her husband has called her north to Winterfell.” The man’s eyes widened slightly as she stressed “dear friend.” Was she laying it on too thick?

“You’re on Lord Tully’s orders, then?” Already the man’s voice was beginning to waver as he addressed Roslin. _Good. Let him think on what his lord has asked of him._

Roslin shot her a quick fearful glance, but when Meera nodded, she answered. “Yes, my husband requests my presence, and that of his son. And,” she gulped, “They are expecting us at Winterfell. All—all of them.”

The anticipation of victory zinged through Meera’s veins as the other crannogmen conferred. Would it really be so easy? Maybe Father had overreacted. It would not be the first time. “I am waiting,” she announced on a swell of confidence when they did not respond in good time. “Let us pass, and my father and I will favor your Lord with a visit when we return.” She left unsaid the promise that they would bring furs, grains, and large game back with them. Even a settlement so close to Moat Cailin as Lantern Isle had little traffic with the rest of the North.

“We don’t want trouble, milady, but Lord Greengood has commanded us to bring Lady Roslin to him to face justice.” The words came from a different man, shorter and younger than the first, with tousled blond hair that reminded her of Jojen’s. Mutters of discontent arose from the smallflolk.

“Justice? What justice? I never knew Robb Stark to condemn gentle ladies for the crimes of their menfolk. Has your new King changed the laws of the North so much during his short rule?” Jolyon’s voice rang with righteous indignation. If she hadn’t witnessed their previous interactions Meera would never have guessed that he and his lady were frequently at odds.

“King Robb is dead because of her!” the soldier snarled. “Might be he would have a different opinion if he’d lived! How can you stand beside her?”

“I stand beside her, too,” Meera reminded the man in her sweetest voice. “Lady Roslin had no prior knowledge of the Red Wedding. Lord Tully trusts her, I trust her, and so should you.”

She could sense the resolve of the other crannogmen waning. They had bargained for a quick kidnap, not a reasoned, mannered discussion with their Lady. Under their hoods their eyes were darting back to the cover of the trees and reeds, seeking shelter, wishing to head home before the snows fell. In contrast, the rivermen had taken Jolyon’s boldness as an excuse to rattle their weapons. She had not noticed before, but even the smallfolk had drawn in close around Roslin and her boy when Greengood’s scouts appeared, forming, if unintentionally, a wall of humanity. Now the rivermen thumbed the hilts of knives, amd the women flashed defiant eyes at nearby crannogmen, as if to provoke them to dare attack a defenseless child.

“Lord Greengood insists. Begging your pardon, Lady Reed, but those are our Lord’s orders,” said the blond man by way of excuse, but he did not look convinced by his own words. Like most men, they wanted to avoid trouble if it meant they would get home safely before dark. She was going to propose a cessation of hostilities for the moment when Roslin spoke up at last.

“I’ll go,” she said, so softly Meera had to lean in to hear it.

“What’s that?”

“I’ll go,” she repeated, looking petrified at the sound of her own voice. “If you won’t hurt my people.” Sitting erect and perfectly still on her horse, Roslin projected an aura of grace and wisdom. Only Meera and those others next to her would notice her leg jiggling with nerves.

“My lady,” hissed Jolyon, but she wasn’t hearing it.

“However, I must request two oaths before I follow you.” Roslin swallowed. “First, you must swear not to lay a hand on my boy. And second, you will let my people leave here unmolested.”

“You are no position to make demands—” snarled the blond man, but the first cut him off.

“Those are more than reasonable terms.” He broke off, his jaw jutted out in thought. “My lord does not wish a dispute with the rivermen, in any case. Yes, I swear it on my honor. Your son and your people have nothing to fear so long as you come quietly. In the North we still keep our promises.” Mutterings from the crannogmen and riverfolk both.

Meera exchanged a long look with Jolyon. “Swear by ice and fire,” she blurted out, turning to the leader of Greengood’s troops. “Reaffirm the oath you swore to House Stark, and we will accept it. It will be them you answer to, if you break it.”

To her great relief, he did not hesitate. “I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire. Does that please you, Lady Reed?”

“That will do.” Restless, she scanned the faces of Greengood’s men, who yesterday she would have considered brothers. Could none of them see that Roslin was just a scared, defenseless woman who wanted nothing more than to see her husband? Or did the resemblence to Walder Frey that lingered about her mouth take precedence over sense? How many among the crannogmen had even met Robb or Catelyn? And yet here they were… “But I would rest easier knowing you were being kept accountable. I will accompany Lady Roslin.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” The man who looked so like Jojen, but for the frown lines, planted his feet and thumped the end of his spear against the causeway.

“It wasn’t _not_ part of the deal, either.” Meera smiled cheerlessly. For a simple soldier to contradict his liege lord’s daughter and heir… House Reed must have fallen low indeed. _But,_ she told herself, _that is a problem for the Meera of tomorrow, if I get out of this mess._ “If nothing else, Father will be wondering what became of me.”

“And I’ll be coming as well,” rumbled Jolyon. “Lord Tully entrusted me with the defense of his wife and son. I couldn’t face him again knowing I let the bog devils ride off with her without so much as a peep.”

_You stupid, stubborn, infantile man,_ she thought, panic rising. Banter might be accepted practice in the south, she did not know, but crannogmen said what they meant and meant what they said. Such insults would be viewed as outright disrespect, not casual cheek. Indeed, several of them actually hissed at Jolyon’s words, and the nearest one jabbed a spear at him. Meera felt her grip on the situation slipping.

“I’ll be coming too, I think,” announced one of the rivermen trailing behind their party, who she had not noticed before.

“And who, precisely, are you?” snapped the leader of Greengood’s men, all former patience melting from his voice.

“Master of Horse at Riverrun. That’s one of Lord Tully’s best mounts milady’s riding, if you please, and he’ll be in a temper if it comes up lame or gets lost in the swamp. Lord Tully’s wrath is something to behold, if you don’t mind, and I myself don’t fancy incurring his displeasure.” Thankfully, this man was respectful enough to bow, and smart enough not to call them bog devils.

“And me.” Hoster’s nurse had elbowed her way through the armed crannogmen, not a care on her, brushing past their spears like they were so many leaves of grass. “The little lord shouldn’t be parted from his mama, and he’ll need someone to mind him.”

“Brynda, no! Take him north to safety!” Roslin pleaded, but to no avail. Other rivermen were speaking up on her behalf, guards and smallfolk alike, even the tall girl Meera had scared that morning when she came out of the swamp. All around them were chants of “me too!,” “you’ll not go alone, milady!,” “we’re with you!” Meera’s heart swelled with something like hope.

“You can’t all come,” sputtered the first man, who Meera was beginning to think was no better than his colleague. “We had orders to take Lady Roslin and any Freys that came with her, no one else!”

“You offered them safe passage. You _swore_ ,” she stressed, anger magnifying her small voice. “Nothing was said about where they would go when they left this place. Now, if we’re all in agreement,” she continued, perfectly aware that they were not in agreement at all, “Let’s be off. If we’re quick we might even beat the storm.”

Lantern Isle was not quite a crannog settlement, situated as it was to the east of the Kingsroad, surrounded by barren seashore in all directions. Nor was it, in truth, an island at all. Perched atop a steep hill ringed with sharpened stakes of driftwood, the castle squatted low over a cold, shallow moat the Greengood lords of old had dug out of the soggy sand. The moat had long since become permanent, but the castle itself was constantly being repaired, replaced, re-erected. It was said that no single beam or shingle was older than fifty years. On a bleak, dim day like this, the settlement did rather resemble an island rising from a fog-drenched lake. And even if the sand shifted enough to make the moat passable in some places, no one would dare face the wrath of the lizard-lions that lived there. A meandering path of weather-beaten planks arched over the moat, wound around the hill, and crept up to the two stout front doors, lined all the way with glass lanterns every ten feet or so, kept lit throughout the day and night in all weathers. So much glass would fetch a price far and above anything they had in Greywater Watch. Meera had often wondered how they paid for it. Better they should use the coin to buy sturdier wood from further North, rather than replace their castle walls every generation… but then it would not be Lantern Isle.

Roslin nudged her. “Is that the castle?” she whispered, her eyes reflecting dozens of tiny points of light. Meera saw trepidation there, worry, too, but also… courage.

“The very one,” she murmured back, keeping her head on a swivel. There were no more trees this far east, but the snow was falling so thickly she couldn’t see much further than she had in the swamp. She was still not convinced they wouldn’t be waylaid by men who had not sworn her an oath. Some thirty rivermen had followed her, Roslin, and the boy on their errand. Perhaps enough to fight off an ambush; perhaps not.

“I see where it gets its name.”

Despite the tension, Meera cracked a smile. “The ones along the path are a newer addition. The original ‘lantern’ was on top of the castle—you’ll see it when we get closer. This is the closest settlement to Moat Cailin, you see. In days of old they would light a massive signal fire over the castle when foes were coming up the causeway to give the Moat time to rally their men. Even through the trees you could see Lantern Isle’s light from the tallest tower…” She trailed off. The days when they might signal distress to Moat Cailin were long gone. Again she was reminded of how far her people had fallen in the estimation of things. Maybe one day, when she was Lady… she shook her head. It did no good to dwell on dreams of the future, when she had so much to do now.

No shouts or signals heralded their approach, but then that was often the way with crannogmen. In the morass of the swamp, it just wasn’t practical to set sentries. Such an exposed spot like this, though… a guard could see for miles in clear weather. From the foot of the hill she could see the great six-sided lantern that topped the castle blazing away, but nothing and no-one was posted there, just a flapping banner bearing the sigil of House Greengood, a cupped hand holding a purple flame on a field of green. The snow fell fast and thick.

The bridge over the frozen moat was so narrow they had to go single file. A shiver ran through her as her horse passed the ring of driftwood stakes that marked the boundary of the castle proper, like a frog had hopped over her grave. _Where is Father?_ He should be waiting to meet them, even if Greengood wanted to stay inside. Unspeaking, she and Roslin wound their way around the hill, the walls of the castle looming larger with every step. Sea birds raced overhead, cawing and squawking, but otherwise the air was so still they might have entered a crypt. Great sooty black clouds hung overhead, pressing down the air and making her ears pop. Where was Father? Where was Lord Greengood? Was anyone here at all?

Before the weather-beaten double doors into the keep they halted, little piles of snow accumulating on their shoulders and heads as soon as they stopped moving. _Why is it so quiet?_ A command was shouted, the doors creaked open, and a man of middling height and indeterminate years emerged. His sandy brown hair was thick and shining, with no trace of white in it (save for snowflakes,) but his face gave off the prematurely middle-aged air of a steward or septon. It was the face of a man who spent his life listening to troubles, not causing them; and yet, the soldiers knelt respectfully before him. _Lord Greengood,_ she realized, feeling discomfited. He looked even less lordly than Father. Who, she noticed, had not appeared at Greengood’s side.

Ignoring Roslin for the moment, Lord Greengood made his slow way to Meera’s side, hands clasped behind his back. “Lady Reed. A pity we meet again under such grave circumstances.” Even his voice was that of a bureaucrat, paper-thin and crackling with dust. “Had you come alone, I would have feasted you for seven days and sent you back to your father a stone heavier and a weighted down with handsome gifts. Alas that you brought a viper with you, into a nest of eggs.” His face did not change expression.

“Lady Roslin is no viper, I’ll be happy to vouch for her. But where is my father? I don’t think he will countenance such disregard for his wishes.”

“Your father?” The creases in Lord Greengood’s face deepened. “I have not seen Lord Reed for years.”

The drum of her heartbeat sounded in Meera’s ears. “He… has not come calling? When we parted this morning, he was bound for Lantern Isle. He should’ve arrived hours ago.” With mounting trepidation, she realized Jolyon’s and Roslin’s eyes both were focused on her. She did not want to return the gaze and read accusation there. _Perhaps he did have that nap,_ she thought, willing herself to believe it. Meera was quite tired herself. “My father wanted to tell you that Lady Tully and her party have his permission to pass through the Neck, that they are on a personal errand for the Starks. He will not be pleased to hear that you have harassed us.”

“If harassing a murderer is a crime, put your father in the stocks, my lady,” intoned Greengood, looking annoyed. “He did worse on Lady Lyanna’s behalf down in Dorne, and she only a woman. Before you sits a Frey girl, cursed by the gods and men both as a turncloak; but somehow she escaped the divine justice meted out at the Twins. When the gods’s conspiracies fail, my lady, it is up to men to see that their will is done.”

“And yet,” she warned, “Men like you assume they know the gods’ will without bothering to ask. Why else would you hinder the journey of Lord Eddard’s bones to his final resting place?” _Aha,_ she thought with triumph, watching the naked astonishment on Greengood’s face. At her cue there was a scuffle behind her that resolved into the shape of Ned’s missing trunk. To belabor the point, it was covered with a damp and dirty Stark banner.

At last Greengood could offer no rebuttal. “Lord Eddard’s bones were lost in the South,” he answered at last, eyes flickering to Roslin and her keeper.

“Not lost—intercepted. Walder Frey took possession of Ned’s bones at the Twins, and after the Red Wedding, well, there wasn’t much reason to pretend he cared for the Starks, was there? Only when Lady Roslin took back the castle did she discover Lord Stark was hiding within. She made this known to King Jon and his siblings, and they insisted she come north at once.”

Meera did not dare look at Jolyon, fearing a surprised countenance and agitated beard-rubbing. Roslin, at least, had more practice at subterfuge, growing up amongst other Freys. “It’s true, my lord,” she said, pitching her voice low and conciliatory. “I had hoped it would be the first step toward a reconciliation with the new House Frey.”

Greengood took a moment to absorb the news, muttering something about “ _new_ House Frey,” and “upjumped bastards.” “This is news to me,” he confessed at last. Having no puff to start with, he seemed hardly diminished by the admission. “Obviously I have no wish to keep Ned from his final resting place. King Jon endorsed this, you say?” His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Do you have any proof?”

“If I may—my lord husband’s letter, summoning me North.” Roslin began rustling in her bodice again, distinctly red-faced, searching for the letter she’d showed Meera earlier.

But Greengood never got the chance to examine it, for at that moment, there came a hue and cry from the end of the column of rivermen. “Attack!” A shrill voice rang out, bordering on hysteria. “Attack!” All heads swiveled to the treeline, where—Meera’s heart seized—an indistinct, rampaging mass melted out of the forest, bounding over the sodden sands with an otherworldly speed. Distant shrieks flew to her ears.

Jolyon had his sword in hand before she could even register the threat. “Is this some kind of trap?!” he roared, eyes wide. But when she looked at Greengood, he appeared to be just as startled as everyone else. _Have the rivermen we left behind mounted an attack?_ Or maybe it was another restive bannerman of her father’s, one quieter and more insidious… Almost without thinking her hand went to the space where she usually kept her arrows and found the hilt of her sword instead.

As she touched the frosty steel her body remembered the last time she’d used it. Her frozen breath curled in front of her face. _No. No, it can’t be._ It was too cold. Too cold, too fast. The dark clouds, the ice in the moat, the distant splashing in the swamp all resolved themselves into a conclusion in one blinding moment of insight. Her heart was thudding against her ribs as if she’d run a league. Meera whipped out her dragonglass dagger so fast Roslin started, but it would not be enough; she could not take on this army by herself. “Fire!” she barked. “We need to arm ourselves with fire! Break the lanterns, light anything that will take a flame! _Now!,_ ” she bellowed when those around her did nothing but look bewildered at her request.

“Fire, Lady Meera?” Lord Greengood’s face had gone as white and curdled as old milk. “We’d do better to use arrows—”

“Arrows, fine, but they _must_ be alight!” she pleaded. Every word they spoke cost precious seconds they might use instead to arm themselves, form up, utilize their natural defenses. “These aren’t unruly bannermen! They’re wights, my lord, wights from beyond the Wall!”

His initial scoff of disbelief was covered by Roslin’s loud moan. “Wights? The undead?? Ser Jaime said… but I didn’t want to believe it… Are you sure, Meera, they’re not just… angry crannogmen?”

“Aye, some might have been crannogmen,” she agreed. The crannogmen had consigned their dead to the depths of the swamp since time out of memory. They would not be bound by even the flimsy defense of a wooden coffin. “But look—some of them are dressed in mail, you see?” The dead were close enough now to see their steel reflecting the light of the great lantern. “Crannogmen don’t wear mail. And that one, at the end…” She trailed off. Either a tree had learned to walk, or that was a giant.

“So it’s true,” whispered the lord, now as green as his name. “King Jon has written so. But so far south… how could they have made it all this way?? There are dozens of settlements they’d reach first, and his queen has _dragons_ , by the old gods and the new! Why have they come to trouble us??”

An excellent question, but she did not have time to ponder it. The front line of the wights had nearly made it across the sand. Desperately she searched her mind for any bit of lore Leaf had recalled, useful hints Benjen had dropped, the slightest tidbit of news Lord Commander Tollett had seen fit to share with her… Fire was their only known weakness, other than dragonglass, and she did not fool herself to think there was any of that hereabouts.

Heart pounding, Meera slid off her mount and whirled to face Lord Greengood. “Fire will defeat them,” she counseled, sounding calmer than she felt. “Fire, or obsidian. They will go up like oiled cloth if you come near them with a flame, but they will not stop if you stab them, or bash their heads in, or take off a limb. They’ll keep coming, and that severed limb will, too. Tell your men to light their arrows and fire at will!” Gulping, Greengood did as he was told.

The first screams of ambushed rivermen reached her ears. Meera looked down. A handful of wights had gained the bridge, and many and more were trying to cross the moat. The new ice splintered, but soon there were so many crawling over the first that it didn’t matter. As she watched, one such wight wrapped its bony hand around the ankle of an unsuspecting man, frozen in horror; he was dragged foot-first into the moat, disappeared beneath the layer of broken ice and choppy water, and did not come back up. The woman next to him—his wife?—howled in agony, her arms outstretched for him even as she, too, was dragged beneath. Elsewhere, some of the more alert men had shattered the lanterns as she instructed. One wrenched a sharpened stake out of the ground, thrust it between the broken teeth of a lantern, and it caught, flames devouring the dry wood as quickly as if it had been made of parchment. With a bellow of triumph, the man heaved the flaming stake into the writhing soup of wights. Two or three caught, shrieked, and died; but then the sodden stake sank beneath the choppy waves, and that was the end of that.

Transfixed by the spectacle, Meera forgot herself until a sharp tug came at her sleeve. “We have to get inside,” Roslin wailed. “I can’t fight and nor should you. We’ll be completely surrounded.” She had fetched her boy from his palanquin and clutched him tight to her chest, as if he was an infant again instead of a four-year-old. His huge, glassy eyes stared out at the flames and steel around them, too shocked even to cry.

With a sharp nod of assent, she grabbed Roslin’s elbow and half-dragged her toward the double doors, hoping against hope she would find the boy’s nurse already there. Instead she discovered Lord Greengood backing into his castle, face transformed by horror. _He probably isn’t even armed._ “Get them inside,” she shouted into his ear, barely audible over the howls of the injured and the repetitious shattering of glass. A great whoosh of hot air blew up from below; something important was on fire. “And send ravens to Winterfell, as many as you can.”

Her words brought him back to awareness, and he shook himself as if coming out of a deep sleep. Meera thought she had gotten through to him when he caught sight of Roslin clutching her boy. “No Freys in my castle,” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips, and shut the door in their faces. A muffled jolting said he had barred it behind him.

A low moan of fright told her Roslin had heard it, too. “He can’t— he isn’t— you said he wouldn’t hurt my son, Meera, _you said he wouldn’t hurt my son,_ ” she screeched, falling to her knees. Her son began to wail in chorus. “He’s only a child, he is innocent, how can he leave a child to die like a dog?” She pressed herself against the door, as if merely touching it would cast a spell of protection over both of them. But nowhere, now, was safe. The teeming crowd at the foot of the hill was dotted here and there with pyres of flame. The hill was very steep, and living fought the dead all the way up the path, but sooner or later a wight would find its way to the doors, and that would be the end of Roslin and her son. Benjen wouldn’t come to save them… _but I can,_ she realized. _Some people will always need help._

The weight of the dragonglass dagger in her hand felt good, encouraging. Wights fell before her in quick succession, one, two, three, a neat pile of corpses. When she was done, she set them aflame. Dancing spears of red and yellow and orange embraced the fallen wights. There was a rushing noise, almost a sigh, as their tinder-dry bodies caught, and the flames soared high. Hot, now. So hot she could not believe the snow was still falling. A step back, then another, and—

A tremendously heavy _something_ hit Meera in the ribs. Her body soared across the yard, collided with the heavy wooden doors, and dropped to the dirt like a sack of flour, knocking the air from her lungs. A tiny _snap_ like the breaking of a bone told her the dragonglass dagger had shattered under her weight. As she lay prone, gasping for air, whirling shapes soared in the grey sky above her—gulls? Dragons? Burning detritus? Dust from the trampled ground choked her. Wet sand stuck to her face. Groaning, she touched her back, her shoulders, her head for injury. There would be a knot on her head, and her lungs were on fire, but nothing seemed broken. Meera closed her eyes and granted herself one moment to breathe. Her vision was slow to return. Everything was blurred, black and white spots both speckling the image before her eyes. _Breathe._ She closed and opened her eyes again. Realized the white spots were snow, and the black, ash. She felt for her dagger and found pieces instead. Jagged shards of obsidian clung to her wet hands. I _can’t stab anything with those,_ she thought dully. Fire it would have to be. She made herself roll over, and got to her knees.

Roslin rose head and shoulders out of the crowd, as tall as Hodor, arms lifted as if to receive anointment from a septon. _I’ve hit my head,_ she thought, blinking; but then she realized Roslin was standing on a trunk, Ned’s trunk, pushed flush against the wall of the castle, Hoster held high in her arms. Her mouth was moving, pleading with whomever was behind the lowest window to take her son, save him. At her feet, Jolyon stood guard with a torch, a huge bloody gash ripped down the right side of his face from ear to chin. He jabbed at a tall, ice-white figure standing with its back to Meera, fear in his eyes. With a roiling sick feeling in her stomach she realized the figure was no ordinary wight. _We’ve lost._ Her heart sank into the ground. All around her the screams of the dying mingled with the calls of the gulls and the high-pitched shrieks of the wights, a chorus of squealing strings and hooting pipes singing them into their graves.

Somehow she got to her feet. At least, when she looked down her feet were beneath her. A flaming stake appeared in her hand as she crossed the bare space in front of the doors, now trampled flat to the bare sand by men and wights and horses. _I must try._ She had been ready to die for Bran, why not Roslin and her son? Death in service to another may have been her destiny all along. She wondered if Jojen had seen this end, and kept it from her.

Eyes bulging, red-rimmed and terrified, Jolyon heaved his flaming stake at the White Walker. A pale hand waved it aside. He drew, the White Walker parried, and Jolyon’s sword shattered as easily as her dragonglass had. Now bereft of weapons, the loyal captain rushed his foe. Instinctively she reached out to stop him, but of course it was useless, Meera wasn’t even sure he had seen her. The White Walker tossed him aside like trash and he rolled down the side of the hill, disappearing from view. With great, rasping sobs of fear, Roslin shrank back, covering her son’s body with her own. 

But the Walker did not harm her. He—could you call such things “he” or “she”?—extended its skeletal hands, trailing wisps of frost. Sounds like cracking ice came from its mouth. Speech? Meera moved closer, too numb to make any attempt at stealth. Her limbs felt heavy.

“No,” Roslin was whimpering, tucking her son’s head into her bosom, away from the creature’s thick, sharp talons. “You won’t take him!” _It wants Hoster,_ she realized. A crazy urge to laugh overtook her. _What does he need the boy for, he could kill them both with one thrust of his sword. But I won’t give him a chance._ Mere steel would not kill a White Walker, she knew that, but in the ensuing confusion Roslin might escape with her son, even if just for a few moments.

The sword slid whisper-quiet from its sheath. A good thing she had sharpened it before setting out. _Forgive me, Father, wherever you are. You are young enough to make new heirs._ The flames of the great lantern above danced along the steel of her blade as she raised it high. It could be made of fire. For a split second Roslin’s eyes caught her own. _Flee,_ she thought, or maybe she screamed it. A gull circing above answered her call with one of its own. Was Bran seeing through its eyes? Meera closed her eyes and swung, expecting to be thrown again across the yard, a great percussive noise and pressure, perhaps instant death—and there was a great shattering, splitting sound, and the spray of a million shards of ice across her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to reader Piggy_saBinring for the insightful comment about the Frey/crannogmen feud, which made me think "oooh... but that means... and what if THIS happened... 👀" and led to the creation of this entire subplot!  
> I can really make no excuses for the delay in releasing this chapter. I blame the ice storm that kept me housebound for a week and a half, which you would expect would give me plenty of time to write, but instead it just sapped me of motivation to do anything except curl up in my biggest sweater and bake cookies. But now it's over, and spring is in the air 😃 Too bad for Meera it's not coming her way, lol.   
> Next chapter, Winterfell prepares itself for battle, not realizing the Night King has plans that do not involve them...


End file.
